


Too Busy Running for Our Lives

by TheJotunPoleDancer



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: A leetle bit of angst, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood and Gore, Cat Fights, Character Death, Convict AU, M/M, Major Character Injury, Marking, Okay we're getting bad and bloody but we're liking it, Oral Sex, Physchological Disorders, Possessive Chris, Rimming, Rough Sex, The most dubious of consent, Tom might be a bit of a psycho, Toms a slut, With Guns, between men, dominance issues, dub con, kids probably shouldnt repeat the language in this, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJotunPoleDancer/pseuds/TheJotunPoleDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Convict/Serial Killer AU. After murdering two men, Chris never would have thought the most difficult part of his cross-country escape would be the Brit who blew him in the restroom of a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my first contribution to the fan fiction world and I do so hope you enjoy it! Thank you to my wonderful darling [Poochee](http://www.poochee.tumblr.com) for putting up with all my bullshit and helping me so much and god damn, I hope the next chapter is not this long. Enjoy!

Chris never should have stopped at this bar.

He should have kept driving. What was another six hours through the barren desert with nothing but evangelists and static on the radio? What was six more hours with a stomach threatening to digest itself and a headache pounding at his temples? Six more hours was Kansas. Six more hours was another state away from New York. Six more hours was another state closer to the border.

Chris had never spent so much money on gas in his life. Had he known at the age of twenty-seven that he would have been on the run for killing a guy – okay, okay. _Two_ guys – he probably would have bought a Honda Accord or a car equally as fuel-efficient. Sixteen miles a gallon was not ideal for the situation he was in, but luckily he’d had one of those few jobs that paid him well enough in life to jump states en route to the border and pay for the gas and the motels along the way.

Or maybe he’d been saving up for a home….

Priorities.

The bar was in the middle of nowhere – its main attraction in Chris’ opinion. It was one of those little places where you could still smoke inside because the owner didn’t give a shit and the jukebox had an expansive selection of country, country, and more country. The lights were dimmed and the music was low and the bar was only occupied by seven or eight guys. The hour was late, and any still awake and in a bar in this time was either drunk or coping.

Chris kept his head down. No one would notice him here. 

“What can I getcha?”

Except, of course, the bartender.

“Whatever you’ve got in a bottle,” Chris responded vaguely in an accent that wasn’t his own. He knew better than to deal in specifics. He could create a trail with anything. Stop at enough places, drink enough Fosters, and they’ve got you. He’d sacrifice paying big money for watered-down piss if it meant not getting caught. He’d made it five states over without a hitch, stopping only in the shadiest of gas stations and the cheapest of motel rooms. He wasn’t stepping too out of line here. This place was miles off the main road and almost everyone in there was missing a tooth or two. Even the bartender seemed to be a tad plagued with the beginnings of gingivitis, but Chris wasn’t one to stare, especially since said man was heading back towards Chris, drink in hand. Now to see what variety of aforementioned watered-down piss he would be drinking.

He was presented with a Fosters.

Needless to say, Chris felt the smallest shudder of paranoia shoot up his spine as if the bartender had read his mind, had been able to read _him_. Did he give off a Fosters vibe? What the fuck was a Fosters vibe? Why was he freaking out?

He took a sip of his beer to calm down, but he couldn’t shake the feeling. He’d been driving for days. He’d stayed at motels, he’d stopped into gas stations, but he had never felt like he was being watched so intens—

There _was_ someone watching him.

No, not watching. _Eye fucking._

And fuck, what was _that_ guy doing in a place like this? He was far too…European – had far too many teeth. The guy was tall, lean, dressed in pants that left _plenty_ to Chris’ imagination – specifically things like how those legs would look wrapped around his neck…or if the guy could even feel his dick anymore with such a vice grip on it.

Chris wasn’t only drawn to his lower half, though. His upper half was just as interesting. He was wearing this grey shirt that made _no_ sense. It was stretched at the neck, yet tight around the chest and oh, this guy had a bit of muscle on him. He was built more like a dancer than a linebacker, but hey, that didn’t bother Chris. Having been secure in his sexuality for ten years of his life, Chris was certain that this guy had the body type he’d always looked for in a partner.

The guys face didn’t hurt either. Those cheekbones of his could cut a man’s throat—or diamonds. That was the saying, right? His curled hair was a tad unruly, but it was short enough that it didn’t matter, and the goatee – which seemed to be a shade off from his hair colour – only made him all the more handsome.

No, really, what _was_ a guy like that doing in a place like this?

And why was he coming closer?

Oh, shit.

“Tom.” It was a simple greeting, laced with a British accent as smooth as the smoke curling from his lips. And it was an honest greeting. That was the guy’s name. Chris could tell by the ease, the lack of gesture or thought. Poor bastard. 

The Brit – Tom – took a seat on the stool next to Chris. Chris, who was now back to facing front, trying his best to ignore the man who had just entered his space, poisoning his air with presence, smoke, and whiskey.  It was rather difficult to do as, when his greeting did not work the first time, Tom slid his stool closer and leaned in until he was inches from Chris’ ear.

“Tom,” he said again, just as clearly and just as smoothly and fuck, Chris couldn’t ignore him now.

“Jed,” Chris responded with a grunt, thinking the name fitting for a place like this. Simple, southern. The guy would never suspect—

“Not many Jeds in Australia, are there?”

Chris froze. In the single second he’d spoken to this man, he’d let his accent slip. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Chris took a sip from his beer in response, sitting back and giving the guy a side glance. Christ, he had big eyes. Alright. He’d made a simple mistake. Being trained for seven years could fix that easily.

“New Zealand,” Chris corrected, shifting his accent the tiniest bit. Oh, his father would murder him if he heard his son using a New Zealand accent. Well, not _kill._ He had to be a bit more careful with such dramatics. Tom seemed to fall for the accent and accept the lie though, taking a drag from the cigarette in his right hand and chasing it down with the whiskey in his left.

“Where are you headed, _Jed?”_ Tom asked, and if Chris didn’t know any better, he’d say that was a goddamned purr. The guy didn’t smell drunk, but what other excuse did the Brit have to get this close to the shadiest guy in the damned bar who donned two days’ worth of stubble and a jacket and t-shirt combo that clearly read ‘I slept in my car.’

Chris shouldn’t have even spoken to him.

“Washington,” he lied just as easily, meeting the gunmetal grey eyes that were boring right into his own. Woah, dude. The guy had a little more interest in Chris than he seemed to realize. Or, so Chris thought. Yet, when given the new information, the guy didn’t question a thing. He just smiled this infuriatingly adorable closed-mouth smile and sipped his whiskey again, spun around in his chair once before stopping himself—with his hand on Chris’ knee.

“Share my fries with me.”

It was not what Chris had been expecting to hear, thus the confused look that must have prompted this explanation.

“I ordered this _huge_ thing of fries, and I can’t eat it alone.” He looked genuinely distressed, his brow ticked up in this way that just made him look like the puppy that had been passed by in the pet shop. Chris couldn’t turn that look down, especially if free food was involved.

They ate in relative silence, Tom talking about the atmosphere in the bar in a way that made Chris realize he wasn’t from here either. The accent had been the biggest clue, sure, but Chris noticed in the man’s awe for such a simple place, he had not even been here long. He had the wonder of a child…about a bar. He wasn’t the kind of guy that needed to be talking to a guy with this much blood on his hands. He could do better. Those lips and those eyes, he could find someone who could let him keep his innocence _and_ properly take care of him. He wasn’t the kind of guy who should be in bars in the middle of nowhere, lithe and unsuspecting and—

“So, are you going to let me blow you in the bathroom, or not?”

Cue the silence.

Chris should have said ‘no.’ He should have declined the ever so kind offer, paid his tab and left without another word. No, not without a word. He should have left with something suave, something dashing. He was wanted by the damned law; he could at least use the mystique of manly grit with a mysterious, snarky exit. A ‘don’t flatter yourself,’ or a ‘honey, you couldn’t handle this,’ but instead he just felt his mouth go dry and he nodded – oh, did he nod – and the mirthful smile that lit the Brit’s face was enough to make Chris feel as if he’d made the right decision.

“Come on then,” Tom definitely purred, standing from his stool in one fluid movement, whiskey in one hand, Chris’ hand in the other, leading him to the bathroom towards the back.

Everyone was watching.

“Don’t worry,” Tom consoled Chris with a fine-boned hand on his back, directly between his shoulder blades, “The door locks.” Chris wasn’t sure how that was supposed to make him feel better.

Tom was fast and strong for someone his size. Once they were both in the bathroom, door shut tight and locked behind them, Tom shoved Chris against the outer side of the stall so forcefully, the barrier of wood shuddered beneath Chris’ weight.

Chris fought the urge to shove the man back into the adjacent wall. He didn’t like to be touched in any way that could leave someone to think they had dominated him, and Tom was pushing it with his advance, but shoving a guy so thin would probably end with a rain check on the blow job, and Chris had been at the mercy of his hand for a while.

He needed this and Tom was wasting no time in giving it to him.

“So, Jed,” Tom  was on his knees in front of Chris, working open the button of his jeans with nimble fingers, eyes straight down to Chris’ clothed cock which was stiffening by the second. His pants were starting to feel as tight as Tom’s looked. “You’re clean, right?”

“You waited a bit long to ask that question, didn’t you?” Chris countered in a huff, thumb coming down to rub the dirt off the man’s cheekbone.

Oh, they were freckles.

He _would_ have freckles.                           

God damnit.

“You’re the one who accepted this from a total stranger,” Tom replied, sounding a bit exasperated as he tried to undo the zipper of Chris’ pants. “You cannot judge me.”

“Just callin’ what I see,” Chris hummed, tilting his head forward to look at the man knelt before him. He wondered what drove Tom to do this, what Tom could have possibly seen in Chris that said, ‘yeah, I’m going to suck that guy’s dick.’ It was far from a romantic gesture so he couldn’t be so sure this was love at first sight. Perhaps this was just how Tom greeted people. Perhaps this was a common occurrence.

The very thought of that sent a rush of unwarranted jealousy through Chris. There was no fucking way. Tom was…Well, Chris didn’t know Tom. He’d only just met him, but he believed this wasn’t how Tom was. He’d learned to read people in his seven years at S.H.I.E.L.D. You’d think he’d at least get _one_ reading of this guy, but he was rather distracted. Tom’s cold hand had slithered down the front of Chris’ briefs, and—

“Christ.”

Chris smiled as the steel eyes beneath him widened in what could only be a kind of shock. Tom seemed to forget what a good pair of pants could conceal.

Chris watched as Tom wrapped his hand around the now hardened length, his hand giving a few experimental strokes. Whoa. Hello. “I think it is common courtesy to warn someone if you intend to choke them.” And oh, did that elicit a snort from Chris. The pride contributed it to that, sure, but mostly the irony was what sat with Chris. Two weeks ago, had Tom offered that, Chris couldn’t promise he wouldn’t have personally choked Tom with his dick, especially if he had been in _that_ crowd. Luckily, Tom hadn’t wronged him in such a way, so the casual, non-fatal choking would be okay.

Chris quirked his brow as he watched Tom down the rest of his whiskey.

“Hey, man,” He offered with the clear twinge of a challenge in his voice, “If you can’t take it—“

Fuck, his tongue was cold.

Tom had wasted no more time in wrapping those naturally pink lips around the equally pink head of Chris’ cock, pushing his neck forward until he had about half of Chris’ length in his mouth. His first little choke was shut out by the sound of Chris’ head falling back and thumping against the wall of the stall, the fluttering muscles around his sensitive head pushing a hiss past Chris’ lips.

Tom’s mouth wasn’t as warm as Chris had hoped it to be at first. He’d clearly had an ice cube from his drink in his mouth while he’d sized Chris up. But ever so slowly, the tight muscles of the stranger’s throat were warming, even if the tongue that kept flicking across the head of his length was still a bit chilled. Chris liked the contrast, and he wasn’t above letting the Brit know he was doing a good job.

“Fuck, yeah,” Chris breathed, fingers carding through the disorderly hair that had begun to stick to Tom’s forehead with sweat “Take it all…”

And Tom did.

The Brit bobbed his head a few times, the swirls of his tongue keeping Chris interested and lubed up as Tom took more and more in with each movement until his lips were stretched wide around Chris’ thick shaft and his nose was buried in the coarse curls at the base of his cock.

Chris grunted shamefully loud when he felt the head of his cock nudge the back of Tom’s throat, blunt head rubbing warm and slick muscle as Tom attempted to breathe around him.

If it was in fact triumph that crossed across Tom’s face, Chris missed it when the slighter man started working him over like he’d – as much as Chris hated to think it – been practicing for years. Tom had set a rhythm Chris could work with and, as his muscles relaxed, he’d even allowed Chris to thread his fingers through his pretty head of hair and fuck his face until the Brit had to move his hands from Chris’ ass to his abdomen to still him. It was becoming quite clear Chris liked to have control and he was getting close.

Toms jaw had begun to ache, so the stuttering of hips paired with a newfound, desperate force was good news to him.

He dropped his hand from Chris’ abdomen and buried himself down to the hilt again, giving the other the go ahead. Tom had relaxed enough, and it wasn’t at all like he wasn’t enjoying this. When he wasn’t gagging, he was humming, sending vibrations straight through Chris’ dick and causing him to grunt with abandon as he thrust and thrust and thrust into Tom’s waiting mouth.

Chris got a little power hungry about half way through, and that had driven him to be so rough with the stranger. Tom was pretty and Tom was breakable and, in Chris’ eyes, Tom deserved to be punished for being so damned good at giving head. The guy was clearly there just to test Chris, sent by the God the evangelists on the radio prayed to. He was handsome, well-spoken, and…British. Chris didn’t know all that much about Tom, but he knew had they been in another place at another time, Chris would have offered to take him out for coffee. They’d met here, though, and Chris decided that if he was never going to see this siren again, he was going to at least take what the man would give him while they were together – and he was going to give what the man would take as if they were together.

Chris’ orgasm approached and, then he felt his stomach knotting up in preparation for the maelstrom, he took the back of Tom’s head and held it tight so that his dick was lodged in the man’s throat and, when he came with a harsh string of curses, Tom was forced to swallow every drop.

He was rather hoping Tom would have had more of a problem with it.

When he felt the slithering contractions of Tom’s throat muscles however and realized the man was swallowing his release with these satisfied little noises, Chris was far from pleased. The man made just for him was nothing but a cumslut, and Chris could feel ire rising in his throat at the realization.

What had he expected?

He pulled out of Tom’s mouth, glancing briefly at lips left so red and swollen and covered in spit that he was satisfied at the damage. He didn’t even offer to help the other man clean up. He went into the stall he’d been leaning against and grabbed a bit of tissue to clean up before shoving himself back into his pants and zipping back up. He had wasted enough time here and it had been worth it, but he had to go. He couldn’t just sit here with the guy who—

Was staring at him once more like the damned bypassed puppy.

“What?” Chris cut, staring sidelong at the Brit still on the floor who had taken to wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his leather jacket. Chris couldn’t bring himself to feel bad—or, he couldn’t admit to it. He had busied himself with some whore at a shitty bar and wasted a lot of valuable time. It was time to go – to get away from this guy as fast as possible.

“You didn’t like it…” Tom muttered, and Chris had to bite back his reassurance. It was the best head he’d had in his life, and that was saying a lot, but it didn’t stop the cops from coming after him. He had to get out of here.

“No, listen, it was great.” Chris tried to sound disingenuous as he checked himself in the cloudy mirror. He had to get himself from ‘sex in the bathroom’ to ‘slept in the car’ before he left, or he was afraid he might call more attention to himself than he already had. “But I’ve got other places to be.”

“Washington.” Tom echoed softly, and Chris had to check behind his shoulder to see if the guy was actually talking to him. Oh yeah. Those eyes were trained on Chris’ reflection, clearly expecting a little feedback. Chris couldn’t be too heartless.

“Yeah. To Washington.” Chris lied again easily, brushing down the front of his shirt. Good enough. He’d just have to pay his bill and get out of here. Simple as that. He’d rested, he’d had something to eat, and he’d had contact with an actual human being – one that he wished he could have met any other time. Fate didn’t work like that though.

“Listen, Tom,” Chris began, checking himself one more time in his reflection before turning, “I really need to head ou—“

Chris stopped.

Tom wasn’t sitting on the floor anymore. No, all six foot or so of him was now upright, standing right before Chris in front of the door, blocking his exit.

“What the—“

“You’re Chris Hemsworth,” Tom blurted in a single string of breath that seemed to all but form into an icy dagger and plunge itself into Chris’ airway.

What had he just said?

“You’re Chris Hemsworth. The guy that killed those two guys back in New York. You’re all over the news,” Tom repeated with an added bit of clarification.

Okay, okay. Chris had to assess this situation. He was shocked, yes, but he could deal with high stress situations. He could figure this out.

Tom – this stranger he’d met in a bar in the middle of bumfuck nowhere – knew who he was. But how? He’d seen him on TV. So, he was broadcasted all the way out here. Okay. So, Tom _thought_ he knew who he’d just blown, but Chris was sure there was a bit of uncertainty in the Brit’s voice as he staked his claim.

He was…somewhat sure he heard uncertainty.

He was assuming.

He _had_ to be uncertain. Who would willingly lock themselves in the bathroom with a proven murderer and trust them so intimately if only for a few minutes. There was no way this guy—was shoving him into another wall.

This time, Chris pushed the slighter man back.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Chris hissed, keeping his voice down just in case there were prying ears. “Why would you think I was that—“

“Listen, _Jed,”_ Tom hissed just as quietly, and Chris couldn’t believe this man who had once been so quiet and innocent was now acting like _this._ He supposed this was the second time Tom had surprised him tonight. “You are on every fucking television from here to Pasadena, and everyone in this fucking bar has recognized you.”

Chris had never expected to see this man so serious. Tom had been nothing but a ball of rainbows and sunshine…and sex up to this point. Now he was asserting himself to a _proven murderer_. Surely he was too well spoken to be so stupid.

“I need a ride,” Tom confessed, voice still low. “You’re headed out of town and, what do you know? I need to get out of town.”

Was he…was he _smiling?_

“The bartender has already called the cops and, lucky for you, I know the fastest way out of here, so…” Tom stepped forward, “Do we have a deal?”

He was insane. That was all there was to it. Chris couldn’t have _company_ on this adventure. He was on the fucking _run!_ He wasn’t going to drag this moonstruck little Brit about. How dare he even think he could haggle with Chris! First, he ensnares Chris with a perfection that shouldn’t be able to be accepted within the short time they’d known each other only to reveal himself as a trained whore who had undoubtedly shared himself with hundreds of others. Second, he’d _used_ his charm to allure Chris into giving him a ride.

It wasn’t fucking happening! It was hard enough to get from place to place alone. With this guy, he’d end up with even more blood on his hands, no fucking doubt. Tom would slow him down and, if they were caught together, Tom would be brought in as an accomplice, clearly something the Brit had yet to realize. And if _that_ wasn’t the case, Chris would end up killing him. No man would use Chris Hemsworth or toy with his emotions just to get a damned ride out of the state. It wasn’t fucking happening.

“If you don’t say yes, I run out of here screaming.” Tom tested, and Chris _knew_ he’d seen the bastard start smiling.

Fuck.

“Fine. Fucking fine!” Chris threw his hands in the air. What else could he do? Tom claimed to know the way out, and according to him, the cops were on their way.

Well, Chris had a few qualms with a passenger in his car, but he assumed if Tom knew who he was, he knew what he was getting himself into. He was an adult; he had to be able to make adult decisions. Chris could, at the very least, use Tom as Tom had used him and, if he stepped out of line once, Chris supposed he could just slit his pale little throat and leave him on the highway.

If he couldn’t have him, no one could.

“Just get us out of here!”

“Of course!” Tom looked absolutely _thrilled._ He knew he’d won in this situation. He was happy as could be…despite officially being associated with a killer. Chris seriously wondered if the guy knew what he was doing. Oh well, he would ask questions later if he didn’t have that mouth busy doing other things.

Tom weaved around Chris, his hand brushing just so across Chris’ concealed length as he made his way over to the sink. He tossed a glance back to Chris, sized him up again. “Yeah, you’ll fit,” he muttered and, before Chris could question just _where_ Tom wanted to fit him, he watched as the man shimmied through the window just above the sink.

No fucking way.

“Come on,” he heard Tom call from the other side of the window and Chris really didn’t know what other choice he had. He was at the mercy of this Brit’s knowledge and going back in the bar no doubt meant being detained.

He _never_ should have stopped at this bar.

The window was…quite the feat, but once his shoulders were through, it wasn’t so bad. He got himself a bit dirtied when he rolled on the ground, but he’d been worse off. He could handle a little dirt. For now, he just had to focus on not choking on the sudden dry air that wafted about in the desert chill and…finding his weasel of a guide.

“Tom!” He called, regretting it the second he’d done it. He could have been free and found his way out of this town alone if he’d just gone to his truck and started driving.  Why could he never just think things through?

The creak of a truck door caused Chris to freeze in his tracks. He scanned the perimeter about him, knowing well enough that was not the sound of a cop car but around here, you never knew if someone was off duty and just the closest person available.

He proceeded with caution.

There were few cars in the lot, but Chris just so happened to have rolled out closest to an old green Ford tall enough it made scouting difficult. He snuck around the back of it, bent low, hoping that damned Brit hadn’t double-crossed him so soon, gotten out here and stolen his truck or some shit like that. He didn’t know even know Tom that well, but that just seemed like something so very _him._

Chris peered around the corner in the direction of where the noise had come from and, before he knew it, he was running across the parking lot towards the spectacle Tom was making of himself.

“We are _not_ stealing a car!” Chris whispered, staring at the man before him, doubled over the back seat of a truck, ass in the air, reaching for something.

“I’m not _stealing_ a car,” Tom shot back, slithering back over the seat and out of the truck, a rucksack in his hand.

“The fuck is that?” Chris cut, eyeing the bag as Tom shut the door quietly enough so as to not draw attention.

“It’s my stuff,” Tom replied simply, throwing it over his shoulder.

“So, you’re just going to leave your car?” Chris questioned, thinking they were better off taking the beaten up car. It was definitely better on gas mileage.

He should have guessed Tom’s response.

“It’s not my car.”

Chris’ mind instantly went to another bathroom in another bar where Tom had wrapped his lips around another man’s dick and forced a ride out of them. He _had_ been talking to that overweight man in the Stetson when Chris had done his first sweep of the place. He sincerely hoped that man had been the prospective ride and not the one whose car Tom was pulling his things out of.

“We don’t have time for thinking,” Tom drew out, adjusting the strap on his bag. Chris wanted to argue that they had had plenty of time for the blow job, but Tom was right. They needed to get out of there. Chris led the way to his truck, choosing to ignore Tom’s snarky “ _This?”_ and climbed in, the Brit doing just the same and closing the door quickly behind him.

He had been in worse vehicles.

“Take a right out of here and head down a quarter mile until you hit Flemming, then follow that out for an hour or so. It’s a back way, but it will get us out of here.”

An hour didn’t sound like the fastest way out of here, but who was Chris to argue? He'd follow this guy’s lead until it proved injudicious to do so.

If all else failed, Chris had a gun in the pocket of his door and another in his jacket. He _would_ get out of here.

Tom stayed quiet for most of the ride, and after the way he’d acted in the bar, Chris had decided he had reason to worry about that. He expected Tom to be shoving his win in Chris’ face, to be asking questions, to be bartering for just what would keep him alive, but he stayed quiet. Chris had turned on the evangelists just for something to listen, and every now and then, he could see Tom’s lips moving in the reflection of the mirror, but he couldn’t hear what he was mumbling over the radio.

Tom stared at the stars, and Chris just _knew_ he would. He could probably name every fucking constellation and its origin if he wanted to, and then use that to convince Chris to make him a sandwich. Who even was this guy? He needed a ride, he wasn’t from around here, and he’d willingly climbed into a car with a man obviously on the run. Was he crazy or just stupid? Chris didn’t know. Chris didn’t know a damn thing and that made him more uncomfortable than Tom even seemed to be in a car with two guns and blood-stained clothes. The genuinely worried Chris.

But not as much as the flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirror did.

“Fuck,” Tom and Chris both said in unison, but it was clear as to who was the more-affected of the two. Chris had made it this fucking far without a cop and now, in the middle of somewhere he didn’t know, he had one on his tail. Shit, shit, shit!

“How long has he been fucking following us?!” Chris yelled, not even bothering to slow down or stay quiet. He couldn’t be calm. He’d made it so far, and he’d made one stupid mistake. He couldn’t end this here. He had to get out of the country. He couldn’t just be detained in a small town prison and held to await his definite death sentence because he’d stopped in one fucking bar to—

“Did you fucking call this cop?!” Chris yelled, the veins in his neck strung taut as he turned to Tom. What else could it be? This far, one new variable and everything went to shit? He was going to kill this fucker! He was going to lose this cop, tie this whore down and use him until he was no good to Chris anymore and then he was going to strangle him with that scarf…he was…gagging himself with.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Chris asked, genuinely interested in what Tom thought he was doing, his anger only subsiding for confusion.

“Pull over,” Tom said around the houndsooth fabric. “He’s just pulling you over for your taillight. It’s out by the way.” Tom was acting as if nothing was wrong. As if Chris didn’t have a cop right on his ass. “He’s going to call for backup if you don’t. Trust me. Just pull over.”

There was no reason to listen to Tom. There was not a single reason Chris should trust this guy, and yet there he was, pulling over because a mad man with a scarf in his mouth and his hands behind his back had told him to.

“Oh, by the way,” Tom brought up his hands and pulled the scarf from his mouth again. “I’ve got your wallet and your cellphone. Do not pull away until I give you the signal.”

Chris was so properly lost, that he had no choice but to stick around and watch what Tom had planned.  

And wonder how the fuck he’d gotten his phone and wall—Blow job. He’d had his hands on Chris’s ass.

Who the _fuck_ was this guy?

How the _fuck_ was Chris supposed to get his wallet back?

The tires of Chris’ truck crunched down on the gravel at the edge of the road as he – rather unwittingly – slowed to a stop. The sound was then echoed just feet behind him and, matched with the pounding of his heart in his ears, Chris was starting to feel properly nervous. It was just a blown light that was all. Sure, there was a guy in his passenger seat binding himself with his hands behind his back and Chris’ belongings in his back pocket but that was perfectly normal out here in the middle of nowhere, right?

“Listen,” Chris started, watching the cop climb out of his car, “I don’t know what the fuck you are doing over there, but if you so much make a fucking sound, I will—“

He didn’t get to finish the threat. Tom was out of the car and _screaming_ , long limbs throwing up the dust as he panicked. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” He pleaded, running up to the officer in his little cloud of dust and Chris could hear him begging to be saved. “Please, I’ve been kidnapped!” That fucking little snake!

Chris, in a burst of adrenaline and terror, reached down to start his car, to get the fuck out of there and drive as fast as he could whichever way he could, but when he moved to turn the key to his truck, it was gone. His hand grasped at air, and his heart leapt then sank deep into his belly. He had been conned. He had been conned by a sinuous man in tight clothes. He’d been bested by a caramel voice and supple lips—and he had seen it coming! Yet Chris had still stopped because he had been told to. He had looked away for two seconds…

Now, Tom was in the back of the cop car, freed from the bonds he had woven around himself, and there was a cop screaming at Chris to come out of his car with his hands up. He couldn’t run. The guy had a gun and, though Chris did to, he was wondering just how fast he could draw it if need be. As of now, he was completely and utterly out of luck, and he would have to do some thinking on his feet.

Chris was shaking when he stepped out of the car, but it was just enough that it could pass for the chill of the cool night air blowing through the expanse of land without a thing to catch on but his body. He was pulsing with adrenaline. It wasn’t a matter of fear anymore. It was a matter of calculating how he would get this cop to drop his weapon so that Chris could grab his, shoot this guy in the head, and then reach into the back of that cop car to yank out his little copilot so that he may bash his pretty head into the windshield.

That was his plan.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Chris said ever so calmly, his hands raised above his head, fingers outspread as he eyed the cop. Tall build, but with the way he stood with one foot angled to the left, his center of gravity would be easy to throw off, to send him sprawling into the ground.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Hemsworth,” The cop said with an infuriating smirk that nearly matched that fucker’s in the back seat of the cop’s car.

The front seat of the cop’s car….

He was fucking _watching_.

“Get on the ground, now!” The cop – Officer Davis, his badge read – tacked on, nudging the gun as if that was going to have an effect on Chris. Did the guy not read up on his case report on this particular convict? Guns didn’t stop Chris. He had the scar on his side to show it.

“Seriously, man?” Chris complained, looking down at the ground. He was dirty enough. He had three pairs of clothes and he wasn’t stopping to wash them anytime soon. Red dust was not an attractive colour on navy t-shirts, damnit. “Can’t I just lean against the car?”

The warning bullet, fired on the ground next to Chris’ foot made it quite clear he would not be so lucky.

The ground it was.

“Hands remain above your head,” the officer ordered and Chris muttered a soft, ‘yeah, yeah’ in response, falling down onto his knees so that maneuvering himself onto his front was easier. This had not necessarily been a part of his plan, but he could figure this out. His gun would be a tad more difficult to reach, but he could probably work it out.

He peered up to the cop approaching him ever so cautiously, gun raised, barrel aimed straight between Chris’ eyes. The guy was a good shot, nerves still as he approached. He wasn’t nervous in the least, and Chris would be a liar if he said that wasn’t a tad disconcerting.

“Now, sir,” The officer began as he approached, gun never wavering, “I have the right to use as much force as is reasonably required to overcome any resistance you may offer. That means,” the toe of his boot met the tip of Chris’ fingers, the steel toe just threatening to crush his middle finger, “If you so much as reach for that gun in your left pocket, I can and will shoot you seeing as there are, in fact, two lives in danger here.”

Chris didn’t doubt the officer. There was a certain thrill that came with shooting a man who had put your entire work force to shame thus far. Just bringing in a felon with a track record like Chris’ was reward enough, but to think that this officer would come home with stories about how he shot the guy he’d arrested – that was pure gold.

Chris was worried. He didn’t have a way out of here aside from brawling it out with the officer when he moved to handcuff him. Whether Chris was stronger or not, the cop’s gun was more readily available than his. It would be a toxic game of chance, but Chris was ready.

He willed himself to breathe deeply as the officer took a step forward, one hand still on his gun and the other reaching back for his handcuffs. Chris calculated the movements, the weaknesses the officer offered, and all Chris had to do was swipe that one leg and reach for the gun and he could enact in his revenge on Tom…and get his wallet back.

Chris heard the crunch of another footstep and he knew it was time to act. A simple swipe to the legs, a show of force to throw off the officer and then boom, gunshot to the head. It wouldn’t even take a full minute.

Chris poised himself just as something else entirely happened.

The officer never moved to arrest Chris. He just stilled above him, still half bent over and prepped to take home his victim. The night air blew without a movement, but with the clean scent of fresh air, there was something else entirely; the strong scent of blood.

He didn’t even blink before he had upturned his face, taking in the sight of the cop still leant over him, mouth agape and floundering, the man’s brown eyes wide, watering, shocked.

It was when the man fell forward, landing just on Chris’ one outstretched arm that the would-be prisoner saw the knife lodged into the base of the man’s skull, warm blood trickling through his dark hair and pooling on the red clay beneath.

Chris, bewildered and running once more on adrenaline alone, ripped his arm from beneath the man and crawled back in panic just as Tom closed in, boots kicking dust once more in the air, the scarf he’d used to bind himself wrapped around his neck.

“Ooh, so close!” Tom cried as he neared the dying man, crouching low on long legs to scrutinize the entrance point on the knife. “Just a bit more south, and you would have been dead, huh?” And without a hint of disgust, Tom yanked the knife out of the officer’s skull, sending a splash of red all over his grey shirt, and then he was plunging the silver tip back in just an inch or so down into the man’s spine.

The man completely stilled.

“That’s better.” Tom clucked, straightening his long legs and standing up, one boot pressed to the man’s back for leverage as he pulled the knife back out of the officer’s flesh once more.

Chris stared in absolute incomprehension, unsure what to make of what had just happened. Yes, he had watched every second of it and heard every noise, but he just…couldn’t comprehend. He needed it spelled out, replayed, slowed down. There was _no way_ this doe-eyed bastard had just _killed a police officer._ Surely, his eyes were mistaken him. There couldn’t be a lean, demure British man stood before him, cleaning off a knife with the hem of his shirt, splattered with blood and _pouting_ at him.

_But there fucking was!_

“Not even a bit of applause?” To asked, seeming genuinely dismayed Chris had yet to thank him or congratulate him. “Was it because I missed?”

“You—you just killed a cop.” Chris was running it over for himself as it seemed TiVo would not be playing back the incident for him.

“Because he was slowing us down,” Tom defended, matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his lean hip out to one side. Chris swore he could see the peak of a hipbone through the thin cotton shirt. It would have been cute if there wasn’t blood on his face, down his front, and covering the knife that was still between those fine-boned fingers.

“Tom, they have fucking cameras in their car!” This guy wasn’t experienced. He had no idea of what to expect. If anything, he probably had just bumped Chris a few numbers closer to the electric chair.

“I disabled it when I was in the car, you lout,” Tom cut with a roll of his eyes, finally depositing the knife into the pocket of his jeans. Chris wasn’t so sure how it had fit.

Chris blinked. “You…you did what now?”

“I disabled it,” Tom repeated. “Got in, cut the chords, waited for him to drop his guard on me and ding dong, the wicked witch is dead.” He shrugged. He _shrugged_. Chris would have begun to believe Tom was actually seasoned at this if it wasn’t for another slip up he’d made.

“You ran towards the officer,” Chris parried, finally moving to stand, not bothering with the dirt. “You ran towards an officer, right towards the camera.” Take that, _Tom._

Tom raised his brows, expecting Chris to say so much more. When he matched Tom’s expectant gaze, the slighter man sighed. “I ran towards an officer on a dirt road, kicking up dust, with my face partially obstructed by my hands and a scarf,” Tom pointed out as if it were child’s play. “Come on, Hemsworth. Do you think I’m a complete fool?”

And Chris didn’t have an answer.

He was the one who had stopped at a bar while on the run. He was the one who had allowed himself to be distracted by this guy. He was the one who had expected no funny business out of this guy, agreed to give him a ride, _and_ listened to him when he told Chris to pull over.

He wasn’t sure who the fool was at this point in time.

“So, are we going?”

This was Chris’ chance to make this right. He could just shoot this guy now for swindling him and making him look like an amateur and a fool, leave his body with the officers, and maybe it would be mistaken for a dual gone bad. Tom had the knife after all. He could leave this bastard behind and get the hell out of dodge on his own, without the complications this fucking psycho would obviously give him. Chris could just fucking go and never look back.

“ _The dirty bum, bum, bum, bum. The dirty bum, bum, bum, bum….”_

Yet there Tom was, in the passenger’s seat of Chris’ truck, singing off key renditions of Broadway songs just miles away from where a man’s still body lie still bleeding in the dirt. The Brit had wiped away most of the blood on his face, the specks that caught in the moonlight blending in with the light dusting of freckles across his cheekbones.

“ _He had it comin’…”_

Chris didn’t trust Tom and Tom didn’t trust Chris. It was obvious in the way he had one arm dangling out the window, and the other thrown across his middle, centimeters away from the hilt of his knife. Chris had, of course, returned the sentiment by placing his gun on the dashboard just above the steering wheel, ready to pull it if needed. They weren’t allies, they weren’t friends. Chris had promised Tom a ride and Tom had promised Chris a warm body. They were using each other and that was that.

There were few border entrances S.H.I.E.L.D didn’t monitor. There was _one_ that Chris had contacts in. All they had to do was make it to Tecate without killing each other.

“Chris.”

They were halfway there. Just four more states and they could part ways.

“ _Chris.”_

Surely they could make it that far without driving each other up a wall.

“Chris!”

“ _What?!”_

Tom looked positively scandalized, his brows drawn together, his lips pursed tight and he had this tilt to his head as if he were challenging Chris from his seat.

“You were supposed to sing Hunyak’s part,” Tom stated, prompting Chris. “Come on, come on, you better start practicing now.” Then, the loon had broken out into some crazy language, eyes all doed-out and watering as if he were in the fucking play he was singing the tunes of. He ended the little – was that Hungarian? – rant, his eyes roaming to meet Chris. When Chris clearly didn’t catch on, Tom smirked and finished for him.

“Not guilty.”

And then he was cackling, head thrown back with this tongue poked out and it was so maddeningly endearing that Chris wanted to lean across the seat and cut that pink little tongue out to make him stop.

Yeah. This trip would be a breeze.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom is having none of Chris' bullshit....and Chris is having none of Tom's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. I lost my mind when this received 100 hits and now its nearly to three! KFAKDJ; Thank you to everyone who have read this, and thank you for the kudos and bookmarks. They've definitely motivated me. This chapter is unbeta'd - shame on me - but I hope you enjoy! Oh, and most of those tags you see up there are taking place in the next chapter, so...yeah. Yeah.

In the seven hours that it took to cross the line into Kansas, Chris learned a lot more about Tom than he cared to know, all while learning not enough.

The information he was presented with was never enough to clarify any of the events that took place in the past hours of his life. He didn’t know where Tom had come from, why he was at that bar, or just how exactly he’d come to kill a police officer with a knife he clearly knew how to throw. Chris was more and more lost with each passing second, and not a bit of information was tangible enough to make him feel grounded in the situation.

He did, however, learn these things:

Tom, much to Chris’ irritation, sat as if he’d been fucked too wide too many times. There was enough space between his knees for three people his size. The truck wasn’t even that big! _He_ wasn’t even that big. Tom was a beanpole of a man, but he took up a larger space than Chris did with his thighs alone. It was truly wonderful for Chris to know Tom could spread his legs, but fuck. He was advertising himself and Chris could feel the indignation like bile rising in his throat, threatening to spill out as a yell, a plea for decency.

Chris had to focus on other things before he remembered the other cars Tom must had sat in just like that.

Chris also noticed that Tom liked to talk. And though he spoke with maddening eloquence with too amiable a voice, it was the gestures that drew Chris’ attention off the road over and over again in an attempt to figure out just what Tom had been doing. He used his hands to speak, and Chris could tell when he was getting into a story whenever the Brit let up on his knife and started using both hands to relay his information.

Chris couldn’t help but think about the hand that wrapped around that knife’s handle, the hand that had been wrapped around his dick only hours ago. He wondered how many men Tom had touched and if he handled them so well because of the knife, or if he handled the knife so well because of them.

Another subject change was definitely needed.

Tom also did this thing where, if he got off track, his eyes would act as two flies trapped, his gaze flying back and forth in the air as if the words he was looking for were on the roof of the truck.

Chris realized, in those moments, just how large Tom’s eyes were and how undeniably sweet that made him look…and then he would catch the glint of red splattered beneath those eyes, and Chris would feel very strange about Tom again.

Quirks. That’s what Tom had. Quirks.

The strangest thing that Chris learned however, was that Tom, despite having killed a man in cold blood only hours ago, had the manners of a saint.

He asked permission to smoke in Chris’ truck and, when Chris grunted in approval – or, Tom took it as approval –he only blew his smoke straight out the window and did his absolute best to keep it outside at all times. When he did bring it in, he apologized before sticking his arm back out the window.

This man carried a knife and could throw it quite well. He gave absolute strangers blow jobs in bathroom, but there was no doubt in Chris’ mind Tom could clean up within five minutes time and be able to have tea with the Queen.

Tom was an enigma. A puzzle Chris could never hope to solve. Tom was educated, he was kind, and he was sweet. He had charm and wit and a passion for the theatre – but Tom was also promiscuous, foul-mouthed, shameless and - not to mention - a complete and utter psycho.

A complete and utter psycho that had manners, but no decency or heed for privacy.

“So, why did you do it, again?

_Again_. Chris knew there had only been speculation as to why he had killed those two men. Tom was trying to word this as if he already knew and a needed a refresher. Well, Chris wasn’t sharing. Tom had no right to know. Had the tables been turned and Chris had accepted a ride from Tom, things would be different. Chris would have a reason to share. As of now, Chris didn’t owe Tom a goddamn thing. The cop was payback for the ride, which was payback for the assistance out of the bar, which was payback for Chris allowing Tom to blow him.

Yes, Chris categorized that as a favour for Tom.

“Oh, alright then, Mr. Strong and Silent,” Tom deferred, lighting up another cigarette, arm out the window once more before he spoke again. “So, why didn’t you, I don’t know, actually _hide_ the bodies?”

Chris snorted at the question, eyes still adhered to the road. _That_ was a question. Chris really hadn’t been thinking the night. That wasn’t to say the murder hadn’t been planned, but it wasn’t like Chris regarded it as the biggest secret in his life. So far, for what he knew, the whole country knew about his kill.

Yes, he could have avoided that for at least three days, but had he really cared, he wouldn’t have murdered someone in the middle of the week when they were expected at work the next day for a meeting. He would not have murdered someone in a congested area of the city on the seventeenth floor of an apartment complex. He wasn’t worried about the consequences of his actions then.

He was worried about the consequences of _their_ actions.

It occurred to Tom after his _third_ drag that Chris would not be answering these questions.

Plan B!

Tom shifted in his seat, and the slightest of movements caught Chris’ gaze. Tom had never been wearing a seatbelt, and it was quite clear this man was a _tad_ crazy and honestly, yes, Chris was a bit wary that Tom may – in a tantrum – jump out of the moving car. It was insane. A part of him knew Tom wasn’t going anywhere any time soon – especially not out in the uninhabited fields of Kansas – but he worried nonetheless. To think he could lose the Brit with such a simple action was—

God damnit.

Chris breathed sharply out of his nose just as he felt the gentle kneading of Tom’s skilled hands on his clothed cock, his own jaw setting tight now. The shit he had to deal with when it came to Tom.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Tom hummed, his breath hot on Chris’ ear. “You just tell me _one_ little detail about the guys you killed and—“

Chris slammed on the breaks.

He felt a _tad_ guilty when Tom went flying forward, limbs all a tangle, but luckily he caught himself before he hit his head on the dashboard.

“What the fuck was _that?”_ Tom shouted in inquiry, his large eyes even wider now with bewilderment.

“Bed time,” Chris replied curtly, letting the car roll onto the side of the road before he threw her in park and took out the keys. “I haven’t slept since I hit Missouri. Tired.”

“You could have warned me…” Tom glowered, straightening himself and smartening his shirt as he took his spot back on his side of the front seat.

Chris shook his head, ruffled his blonde hair that had tangled in the gusts of wind from the open window. Oh, he needed a shower.

“I’m not very good at warning, mate,” Chris chuckled, thinking back to the first thing he’d not warned Tom about. Poor guy.

“Now, get out.”

There was a silence and Chris saw Tom sizing him up, trying to take in what had just been said. When it seemed to take a bit long, Chris gave a nod of his head to the bed of the truck. Outside.

“Not big enough in here for us both.”

Tom’s eyes followed Chris’ to the plastic and ridge-lined bed of the pickup. Rust ebbed in from the sides, and there was dirt, leaves, and a spare tire in the dead center.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tom cut, eyes hard on Chris.

Chris grinned, bemused, and shook his head. “Sorry, mate. Back you go.”

“Are you _serious_?”

“Did I not sound it?”

“ _Do not_ ,” Tom cut with a tight set to his jaw, “Answer my question with another question.”

 But Chris wasn’t budging and, in the nine hours they had known each other, Tom knew Chris wouldn’t. It was cute in Tom’s opinion, despite the predicament he'd been put in. Chris thought he was the one in charge here – trying to act big and bad and careless - but Tom knew very well that this was not the case.

Tom was always in charge.

He could see how Chris, as much as he liked to act like a hard ass, hung on every word Tom said. There was a bout wit and desire firing in Chris’ brain – Tom had seen the look in many – but he was slowly losing the battle.

The destruction of his sanity was endearing in Tom’s eyes.

And Chris could see the slight rise to Tom’s ever moving eyebrow, could see the smirk forming on his lips. Tom thought he had power over Chris, Tom thought _he_ was running the show, but that was not the case in Chris’ eyes. Tom was crazy, and Chris knew little about him, but no one who brought a knife to a gunfight won.

Take Indiana Jones – one of Chris’ favorite movies and the main reason he had chosen a gun in the first place. As demonstrated in Raiders, anyone could twirl around a knife (or a sword in the movie), throw their legs into the air and make strange noises, but a gun shut that shit up real quick. Tom was small and Tom was swift, but a bullet was so much faster.

He wasn’t intimidated.

Chris was in charge, and this little fucker needed to know that.

“Goodnight, Tom.”

Tom held Chris’ too-blue gaze for a few moments more, waiting for him to start laughing and move over, but no. Chris was dead serious. He wanted Tom in the back of the truck for the night.

Fine. What the fuck ever. Tom wasn’t some germaphobic princess. He’d sleep in the back of the truck if it meant a ride. Fucking Chris and his fucking common fuckery.

Tom reached into the floor for his bag, but Chris was quick to grab his arm— _softly._ The guy had a knife and though Chris had his good hand, he wasn’t risking it.

“Leave your shit in here.” Chris said gruffly, pulling Tom’s arm back as he sat up. “I’m not going to go through it. I just need insurance on you. Don’t need you running off and telling someone where I am, do I?”

Tom let go of his bag reluctantly and ripped his arm away from Chris’ grasp. It was new to see Tom _so_ livid and Chris had to admit, it was kind of hot – his wide eyes cut into slits, his cheekbones all hollowed out. He was far from happy, but he was moving nonetheless.

He shoved open the door to the truck and slammed it hard before Chris watched him walk around and climb into the back in his rearview mirror. The truck barely moved with the Brit’s weight, even as he circled the bed like a cat trying to find just the right spot.

He was still fuming.

Chris slid open the little center window in the rear windshield so as to better communicate with his miffed little boy toy.

“Here,” Chris interrupted Tom’s little session to toss him back a blanket. He’d packed two and if he was going to kick the poor guy out into the cold, he was at least going to give him a blanket. Chris convinced himself it was only an act of kindness, not an act of guilt.

Tom caught the blanket with a grunted little “thanks,” before he finally found a resting position along the spare tire, back pressed to the black rubber as he lie on his side, crumpling up the top corner of the blanket to use as a pillow.

This was fucked up. All the other guys had given Tom a real place to sleep. Some had extended cabs with a bed large enough for two people without having to lie on top of each other. Others had beds where Tom could only sleep pressed up close or lying on top of his most recent chauffer. It was a small price to pay.

While Tom got comfortable, Chris did the same, curling up on his side to face the back of his truck seat, his long legs curled until his knees hit the cushions. This would be his third night sleeping in the truck. He’d wanted to stay at a motel, but if Tom had kept up his pawing, he would have spilled his secrets faster than he could spill in Tom’s mouth….or hand…or ass.

He hated the effects this man had on him.

Thus, why he was in the back.

Chris had only a bit of trepidation letting Tom out of his sight. He knew he didn’t have much to worry about, parked out in the middle of nowhere with the doors locked and Tom’s only belongings inside. Besides, Chris knew dependency disorders, and this guy had them like no other cases Chris had seen.

 Tom was looking for acceptance and Chris had seen that when he’d not promptly applauded Tom’s kill. The disappointment in his eyes both when he thought Chris had not approved of his blow job or his kill was heartbreaking. Tom wanted Chris’ acceptance, and he wasn’t going to get it by running to the police. No, Tom wasn’t going anywhere too far away.

“Goodnight, Tom!” Chris repeated with a little chuckle, the window still open to let a steady breeze into the truck, as well as enabling Chris to keep tabs on the loon in the bed of the truck.

“Fuck you.”

Tom’s manners seemed to dissipate when he was tired.

Chris could understand that.

It was no surprise to Chris that Tom seemed to talk in his sleep. Every once in a while, he would hear the other mumble something incoherent before the truck would groan or squeak beneath a shift or a sudden limb movement from Tom. He couldn’t be comfortable back there, but he was definitely sleeping.

Chris didn’t sleep well anymore. It wasn’t that his dreams were plagued with dark memories of his past or any shit like that, but he just liked to always be aware. He’d started sleeping light like this when he first started working Spec Ops for S.H.I.E.L.D. He was always ready for someone to find his identity and come after him. He’d put enough serial killers and drug lords away; someone would get him sooner or later.

Funny how things turned out.

That was why, even with his head buried beneath a blanket, when he heard a shift and felt a slight counter balance of weight, Chris was wide awake and listening.

Tom was moving around.

No, Tom was _getting out._

And he was being awful quiet about it – awful _sneaky_. Chris didn’t like it.

He listened to Tom’s feet hit the ground, listened as footstep by footstep, Tom got further and further away. Where the fuck could he be going? There was nothing for _miles._ Yet Chris listened to him as he walked right out of earshot, his soft footsteps fading entirely.

No. No, no, no.

Chris threw the blanket off his body and pulled his gun from his pocket, safety clicked off in an instant. Desperate times. He could shoot Tom in the foot, drag him back screaming. That would be something Chris could fix by himself in the car. There was no way Tom was getting away from him now.

Chris had only just gotten him.

He headed off in the direction he’d heard Tom make it off towards, not seeing his Brit anywhere. There were hay bales here and there, sure, but why would Tom be hiding behind one of tho—

Close range attacks. Tom had a knife. Yes, that made sense. Well, Chris was having none of that. He was not keen on being stabbed over a sleeping arrangement altercation. There were much better things to get stabbed over. Chris was on the verge of listing them when he heard movement to his right.

He stopped in his tracks and, as quick as he could, hid behind a hay bale. This was the second time he’d played this game with Tom. The time at the bar had been enough, but Chris had to admit he _kind of_ liked the adrenaline rush he got from this terminal game of hide-and-seek.

He heard movement again. To his right. He strained his ears and, when he peeked around his hiding spot, there was Tom, knife in hand, ready to attack.

Too bad he was looking the wrong way.

Chris stepped soundlessly once, took aim at Tom’s left Achilles tendon. No, that was a bad idea. If running needed to happen, he couldn’t be in charge of carrying Tom through a hail of bullets, bridal-style. He’d have to go for that pretty thigh.

He took aim, took another step forward and Tom must have heard it, for he whirled around much quicker than Chris had expected and—

“ _What the fuck are you doing?!”_

Tom’s hands were up and blocking his body as if that would help him at this point. His grip was loose on his knife, only his thumb and forefinger wrapped around its base.

He had no intention of using it.

“What the fuck are _you_ doing?!” Chris shot back, gun still aimed at Tom, hands still and eyes focused.

“I was taking a fucking piss!” Tom nearly shrieked, his anger taking over his initial shock. Chris wasn’t falling for it, though.

“Then why the knife?” Chris asked, not dropping his guard.

“I’m paranoid! It’s fucking dark!” Tom yelled in response. There were no houses for miles. No one would hear them. “I don’t know what the fuck is out here!”

Tom had yet to pull the wool over Chris’ eyes.

“That doesn’t explain why you were so damned shifty about it!” Chris had Tom caught and he knew it. This man had planned on running, had planned on distancing himself as far as he could from Chris. He could see it in his eyes, in his body language. Tom had planned to leave him, the conniving little shit.

“I didn’t want to wake you! Holy Christ!”

Chris lowered his gun, eyes still trained on Tom and ready to shoot to kill if that knife flew his way.

“…What.”

Tom rolled his eyes, flipped his knife closed and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Trucks fucking move, Chris,” Tom seethed, his hands at their gesturing already. “You were sleeping, I didn’t want to jar the truck and wake you. It’s my _fucking fault_ for trying to be nice to the guy _who threw me in the goddamn bed of a truck!”_

Oh, fuck.

Chris clicked the safety back on his gun, dropped his arm down to his side. Tom had to take a piss. Chris had pulled a gun because Tom had decided to relieve himself. Well, that was…a tad zealous of him.

“Look, Tom—“

But it was too late. Tom was storming back to the car, one leg already thrown over the tail gate as his other came swinging over.

Chris was a bit embarrassed.

He followed behind only after he felt he should do so…and after he’d relieved himself.  He had nearly shot a man for peeing. Wow. Chris had to admit to himself that that was impressively fanatical. He wouldn’t be so surprised if Tom stabbed him in his sleep.

He’d have to close that window.

Chris trudged back to the car and let himself in, locking the doors behind him as he crawled back into position. He’d moved to latch the back window back, and he wasn’t all that surprised to see what could only be Tom’s grey shirt hanging in front of open gap acting as a curtain. Tom wanted nothing to do with him for the rest of the evening Chris could assume, and he _should_ feel bad…but really all he could think about was Tom being shirtless in the back of his truck.

He slept extra lightly that night to ensure he would not miss Tom getting dressed in the morning.

He needed to see that.

______

Tom didn’t speak to Chris the next morning unless he was directly addressed, and everything he said ended with an insult. He was still pretty irate about being forced to sleep outside and nearly being shot, and Chris could understand that, but it was a brand new day. Surely Tom was only _so_ affected.

Chris watched in silence as Tom tended to himself the next morning. He’d not gotten to see Tom shirtless as planned, because Tom really was fast, but he got to see him in the early morning and that would suffice for now.

He observed Tom, passing it off as suspicion, as he pulled a water bottle from his rucksack as well as a toothbrush and a dwindling tube of toothpaste. He brushed his teeth outside of the car far well past the dentist-appointed time and even popped a piece of gum after just in case.

It was maddening ho attractive he found Tom even at a time such as this and, as Chris brushed his own teeth using the same method, he had to rip his eyes away from those ginger-coloured curls and the slight puff that the Brit’s cheek took.  Every once in a while, Tom would be knocked off balance by nothing but the earth’s rotation, and he would have to catch himself before  he toppled over. The morning sun, unfiltered by the roof of a truck or the curtains of a room had clearly woken Tom earlier than he would have liked.

As Chris physically fought over the urge to stare or not to stare, Tom busied himself using the remaining portion of water to wash the blood of the policeman away from his face, hands and arms. He’d not bothered to do this yesterday – and logic said that was because it had only happened yesterday and he’d not exactly had the time – but Chris could only assume Tom was doing it because habit said no one would pick up a homely, blood-spattered beanpole.

Or maybe Tom just wanted to be clean.

Either way, Chris had his guard up. He’d be watching Tom today.

_______

Tom only said four things in the passing of two hours.

“Would you _please_ watch the road instead of _me?”_

“I was listening to that.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

And, the one thing Chris had been a worried about since they’d woken:

“I’m hungry.”

They weren’t in the quietest part of town anymore. They were in a more rural community sure, but they were travelling along a state highway. This wasn’t dust storms and Dorothy anymore. There were other cars here, albeit only a handful. They’d travelled through the city, and they were just on their way out, but of course Tom couldn’t have spoken earlier or waited until they found a place out in the country again. He was hungry now and Chris couldn’t just let him starve. He was small enough as it was.

There was a gas station just up ahead, and he knew Tom had hoped for _real_ food, but when he jumped in a car with Chris, he should have known that wouldn’t happen often. He scrutinized the area as they came up to the station.

If they stopped here, Chris would have to get off the highway immediately after, find a few back roads to get him back on track. If he was noticed here, he’d be expected to escape down the highway to get out as fast as possible. The avoidance of being seen was really his best bet, even if he had been behind the wheel for days and would like a chance to just walk freely around.

Had he not killed two people, of course, he’d have that liberty.

He’d stay in the car.

Chris pulled up to a gas station and, eyes still looking about for cameras, told Tom quite plainly, “Hurry up. I want to at least cover another state today, so get what you need and come the fuck on.”

Tom didn’t bat an eyelash as Chris spoke. He was used to being talked to in such a way and, after Chris’ little display last night, he didn’t expect much else from the Aussie. Not everyone was raised with proper manners.

“And how do I know you will not leave me here?” Tom inquired, back against the door, arms crossed and grey eyes on Chris.

Well, it seemed trust was still an issue between them.

Surprise, surprise.

 Luckily for Tom, Chris didn’t have time for this. There was a camera just to his right and he didn’t need to cause a scene and catch the attention of whoever may be watching it.

“Here.” Chris tossed Tom the keys to truck because he knew that was the next move Tom had planned. He’d done it once and Chris had no doubt he would do it again if the opportunity arose. It was best to just give it up and let him get his snacks so they could go about their silent drive.

Tom would be a bundle of joy to share a motel room with. Insolent, sardonic, and actively avoiding speaking with Chris.

Well, Chris was sure he knew how to force a few noises out of him.

Speaking of _him._

“Why are you still here?” Chris asked, meeting Tom’s still expectant gaze. What part of ‘hurry up’ did the guy not understand?

“I need money,” Tom replied flatly, holding out his hand.

 He didn’t carry money. Not since he’d left his wallet – along with a good pair of pants – in a guys’ house three states over. The evening had turned out to be a bit more…explorative than Tom had bargained for and, while his most recent _caretaker_ was off trying to find something a bit bigger than the dildo his wife had tucked away in her sock drawer, Tom jumped out a two story window and got the fuck out. He had another pair of pants packed away, and he hadn’t even realized he’d left his wallet until he’d gone to pay an older woman who had been so kind as to give him a ride to the nearest gas station to ‘call his friend for a ride.’ It wasn’t too much of a loss. Only three hundred dollars. He kept his ID and passport in his bag.

Chris wasn’t in the least bit surprised Tom didn’t have any cash. He wouldn’t. But Chris couldn’t give and give to him. Tom was quick with his keys and quicker with Chris’ wallet. If he started giving his stray handouts now, Tom would be quick to defy him if Chris stopped later.

Besides, if Chris gave Tom money, he’d show vulnerability. He’d show Tom he was worried about him and wanted him to eat. This was a cross-country escape, not a date. Besides, if Chris ever took Tom on a date, it wouldn’t be in this truck. He would rent a car – a nice one – take Tom out somewhere nice, follow it up with dinner. No! Laser tag. Fancy dinner and laser tag. Yeah, Tom would like tha—

Chris would _also_ be broke in no time if he started with the handouts, and he couldn’t exactly run to an ATM and withdraw. Tom would have to do it as he had been.

Tom was a little more than pissed off.

That was the second time he’d slammed the door on the truck hard enough to shake the whole vehicle.

Chris watched as Tom made his way inside without a bit of a wariness or disguise. He was far too carefree for his own good.

When Tom was pretty much still in front of the candy aisle, Chris gave him a bit of privacy, opting to count the cash he did have left. He was a little over halfway to his destination, and he had pulled an ample amount of money –all of it to be precise-- but now he needed to compensate for two. It would be a bit trickier.

Chris checked up on Tom again just as he heard the ding of the bell above the entrance to the station. Tom was still inside, though he’d moved to the drinks. There was no way he was fitting any of those into his pockets.

He wasn’t very good at this stealing—

Who the _fuck_ was he smiling at?

Tom’s smile was so gorgeous it was infuriating, even more so when it was _directed at another._

Chris craned his neck. Whoever Tom was speaking to was just out of Chris’ vision and, after a few seconds, Tom was too, seeming to walk towards _whomever_ he’d just met. It wasn’t the clerk. Chris could still see him behind the counter, reading something, but Tom, _his_ Tom was now completely out of vision.

Chris moved to get out of the car, but immediately had to stop himself. The camera. It was trained right on his car. Fuck! What if he—No. He couldn’t go out the back window. How suspicious would that look? Okay. This he could do. He just needed to move the truck. He just needed to move it three or so spaces over. Yeah, that would work. He could have a larger range of viewing _and_ he could storm into the station if needed.

Okay.

Tom had Chris’ keys.

Goddamnit!

Chris, in an act of complete and total desperation, smacked at his steering wheel a few times. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He was trapped in a goddamned vehicle while Tom was—Oh, Chris didn’t know! He could very well just be staring at the crisps aisle that went right out of Chris’ field of view, but Chris didn’t know that! What could he do? Tom hadn’t moved into sight for…oh, three minutes!  Chris had to figure out what was happening.

So, he slid his ass over into the passenger’s seat in an awkward tangle of limbs and movement, hoping to crane his neck just far enough to see _anything_. There was the cashier, still looking down at his newspaper, there were the bags of crisps, and there was--

\--Tom walking towards the front of the store, carrying a good amount of goodies and placing them on the counter.

Chris breathed a sigh of relief so deep, he felt his entire body deflate of tension. Jesus Christ, he was sure he’d almost had an aneurism.

Tom was just standing there, smiling at the store clerk, saying something Chris couldn’t read before turning away from the counter and saying an unmistakable, “I’ll be _right_ back!” The clerk gave a friendly nod and started to ring up the impressive little pile Tom had made.

Chris could only assume Tom was using the bathroom and, if the security here allowed it, he would have gone into the bathroom and pulled his gun on Tom as he had last night in hopes of it being a large enough joke to get him to smile at Chris like that again.

That would be funny, right?

Oh, he really wished he could get out.

Chris sat for a few moments more, reclining his head back against the headrest as he waited for Tom to return, a smile tugging at his lips at his own idea of a joke. Really, he was interested to see if Tom had just lied to him and really did have money stuffed into those tight jeans of his. Or maybe he’d made a deal to clean the bathrooms with the manager so that he could leave with his sweets.

Ha. Tom cleaning bathrooms. Chris only knew him so well, but he knew that would never happen. Tom’s hands were smooth – not the hands of a worker of any sort. He’d no doubt worked as a waiter or a fucking librarian sometime in his life. He’d quoted enough Shakespeare during their initial chat before the cop incident, Chris wouldn’t be surprised.

Just as Chris shouldn’t have been surprised when Tom emerged from the back with another man’s arm around him.

Chris froze.

He couldn’t make out Tom’s face from here, as it was shrouded by another man’s stature, but Chris didn’t have to see Tom to know he’d done something he shouldn’t have.

Chris had begun to shake long before the mystery man started paying for Tom’s food. He’d only just walked in! Surely Tom could not have moved so qui—

The mystery man – an older guy with greying hair, a lanky body and tanned skin – handed Tom his bag, and Chris saw the gracious ‘bless you’ leave Tom’s swollen and red lips. He swiped his middle finger over the corner of both sides of his mouth.

Chris was back to breathing hard through his nose, his grip hard and white on the steering wheel. No. There was no fucking way. Tom had only been gone for….eight minutes and fourteen seconds. He couldn’t have—Could he?

Chris watched as Tom and the older gentleman parted ways, a quick slap to Tom’s rear giving Chris the hint they hadn’t just _talked_ in their time together.

Tom climbed back in the car, a too-red smile alight on his face as he reached into his bag and pulled out a crinkly little package and handed it over to Chris along with his keys.

“Got you a Ho-Ho.”

And Chris didn’t miss the glee in Tom’s voice, softly distorted by the slurred words of a tired jaw.

Chris saw red.

Without so much as a word, Chris threw his car into gear and headed off after the Chevy that older fucker just climbed into, not caring if he jarred Tom a bit with the turn around.

Or if he was going right back the way he came.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP. Look above you. See those tags? They come into play here. Without giving much away, they are all accurate and up to date so please, be preepaaaaaarrrred.
> 
> Also, holy shit! This has over 800 views. Thank you to everyone who has read and kudos'-ed and commented. Its my motivation.
> 
> Finally, another thank you to my darling Poochee for dealing with me and my five-day war with this chapter.

The only sound Chris could hear over the man’s hoarse pleading was the constant crinkle of the bag of crisps Tom had decided were a must-have for this event.

The thin man from the gas station – Errol Handenburg, Chris had read from his license – was positioned with his knees in the dirt, and his hands behind his head, his eyes focused on his own house just meters away. Behind him stood felon Chris Hemsworth, a sleek, black Caracal pistol held tight in his hand, aimed right at poor Errol’s head. Only a meter or so away, on the opened tailgate of Chris’ truck, sat Tom, munching on the first of three bags of salt and vinegar crisps he had been so graciously gifted at the same gas station where Chris had first seen Errol.

Chris had debased Errol within the span of a minute. Even with Tom so diplomatically telling Chris they were driving the wrong way, Chris had successfully followed this man home, pulled up into his driveway, and used Tom as a ploy to get just close enough to break the man’s nose, shove him to the ground, and aim a gun at his head.

Tom had just gathered up is food and prepared for the show.

Errol Handenburg, age forty-seven, with brown hair and green eyes and a height of six feet, two inches was _not_ having a good day.

Chris could only speculate that this was because Tom had blown the guy in the restroom of the gas station. Chris could only speculate this man had agreed to give Tom money in return for the consent to push his cock past Tom’s lips, and that was why he was in the situation he was in no. The only reason he was still alive was because through his ‘please, no’s’ and ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’s, Chris couldn’t get a direct assessment of his guilt.  

He couldn’t dole out consequences for actions he couldn’t confirm even happened.

Thus why he needed a confession.

“Quit your fucking whining!” Chris demanded with a roll of his eyes. How pathetic individuals could be. This was a grown man before him. Grown men, above all, should know that there were consequences to their actions. The white man was no better than anyone else. In the end, he would receive the punishment or the reward he deserved.

“What happened in the bathroom, _Errol_?” Chris asked, loading up the shot into his pistol with a quick movement of his hands.

Tom was impressed.

“Please!” Errol was a sniveling mess, eyes screwed close and snot running from his prominent nose. “Just let me go! I haven’t done nothing!”

Tom popped another crisp into his mouth, grey-blue eyes shifting over to Chris. That wasn’t the answer he wanted at all. Tom was anxious to see the response.

“Not what I fucking asked, mate,” Chris chirped, knocking the barrel of his gun against the man’s cranium as a warning. “You want to try again?”

Errol did, but much to Tom’s interest, he _still_ got it wrong.

“My wife will be home any minute, man, please!” Errol wept, hands twitching behind his head. Tom could see he wanted to escape, could see him trying to figure out if he could reach behind him and get a good hold of that gun before it was fired.

Oh, he _had_ to move closer.

Chris saw, from the corner of his peripheral, Tom hop off the tailgate and saunter over a tad closer to the scene, another crisp crunching between his perfect, white teeth.

“William!” Errol foolishly turned towards Tom, reached out to him, “Come on! Tell him nothing happened!”

That movement alone got him a sharp clip to the ear, his head forced forward by Chris once more to stare at his house. Chris was having none of that.

He was however, slightly relieved that this man hadn’t been moaning Tom’s actual name when Tom had taken him in his mouth, worked him over like he had Chris. There was a sense of pride that Chris had been given Tom’s—

Was that his real name?

“Who the hell is William?” Chris shot, his sharp gaze turning to Tom, but his gun staying firm on Errol’s skull.

“It’s my middle name,” Tom mumbled around a mouth full of crunchy potato, his shrug turning into a little twitch when the vinegar flavor got to be a bit overwhelming.

_Thomas William._

This wasn’t the time to get sentimental, but it was nice to know Tom’s middle name. It suited him. Very gentleman-like. The moniker of his favourite playwright. It was…fitting.

But it was time to get back to business.

“Now, Errol,” Chris began again, making the poor bastard flinch. “Did Tom get on his knees for you?”

Errol’s sob was followed by what could be a warning tone from Tom.

“Chris.”

“Did you stick that dirty fucking dick of yours down his throat?” Chris interrogated further, taking a step back, fingers poised on the trigger.

“Chris.”

Tom’s mood was turning sour. Was that _really_ why they were after this guy? What Tom did with ole Errol here was none of Chris’ business. He’d told Tom to do as he usually did. He’d permitted this.

But if that’s what it took to see how the infamous Chris Hemsworth worked, then Tom would suck it up.

“Did you let,” Chris started again, breaking down the words syllable by syllable, “Tom suck your dick?”

“No!” Errol screamed, “I didn’t let no Tom suck my dick!”

Oho, he was a clever boy. Tom caught the flaw just as Chris did.

“Errol, Errol, Errol,” Chris started, following up the condescending chant with a swift kick to the man’s ribs, sending him writhing into the ground, his open sobbing causing the dirt from the ground to cake on his face.

Chris wasn’t playing games anymore.

“Did Tom here suck your cock, Errol?!” Chris yelled, and Tom had to pop another crisp into his mouth to keep himself from begging Chris to keep his voice down. Really, Tom had done it in a _bathroom_ for a reason. He didn’t want it to be a public event.

Errol wasn’t answering, though. He was far too wrecked, curled up in a heap on the ground, reaching out to his house like it would come to him and all would be well. He’d taken too long. Chris was done here.

“Tom!” Chris turned his attention to the Brit, his tone harsh and direct. “Did you suck his dick?!”

Tom blinked, a crisp lifted halfway to his lips. He hadn’t expected to be dragged into this. He was just an innocent bystander directly involved in the crime. He didn’t want any trouble. This was poor ole Errol’s battle to fight. Chris couldn’t expect Tom to sell the poor guy out.

But he _had been_ asked…

“I _may_ have sucked his dick,” Tom admitted nonchalantly, watching the colour in Errol’s face drain even further.

Tom was painted in blood and skull matter before he could even get the crisp in his mouth.

“Goddamnit, Chris…”

They left Errol’s body in the driveway for his wife to clean up.

\-----

“Well, we’ve got a whopping thirty-two dollars more to our names _and_ a ripped ticket stub for the movie Cars. Oh, no. We have _three_ ripped ticket stubs for the movie Cars.”

It occurred to Tom only after he’d dumped the money into his satchel and thrown the wallet out the window that Errol probably had a child.

Oh well.

“You should have seen his face,” Tom commented, arm rotating in circles as he rolled down the window to light another cigarette and air the smell of recently-deceased from his clothing. He’d have to wash them in the sink…wherever they were going. “Right before you shot him, he just gave this expression of complete and utter hopelessness. It was….absolutely stunning. He gazed up at his house, reached for his salvation, and—“

“Shut the fuck up, Tom.”

Tom’s gaze went from out the window to Chris, his brow raised at the overall personal rain cloud demeanor Chris had going on.

“Oh, come on, Chris,” Tom chimed, reaching over and giving the blonde a playful shove. “Surely you aren’t having an internal crisis over there about shooting some hi—“

“ _Shut. Up. Tom.”_

Tom tucked his cigarette back into the box, turned his body to face Chris. In all honesty, he looked no better than he after they’d left the station. His knuckles were still white on the wheel; the leg not pressed down on the pedal was bouncing with unused energy, with unsaid words.

What the hell?

“Chris, really. You made me sleep outside last night and then pulled a gun on me. On _me._ ” Chris was about to shush Tom again, but the Brit was far from finished.  He cut it in before Chris could hope to. “ _Then_ , you made me fucking degrade myself so that I could eat. So _how_ am I the one you’re getting snippy with?”

“You blew that guy, Tom,” Chris muttered, his eyes straight ahead on the road. They were headed back in the direction they needed to go.

“So?” Tom question, not really understanding the implications of something so simple. “I blew you within twenty minutes of knowing you, how could—“

“It’s different!” Chris shot back, and surely Tom saw that. He’d given Chris his real name; he’d shared food with him. Tom had given him looks, had smiled at him, and had chosen _him._

“How is that different?!” Tom yelled, truly and sincerely interested on how one blow stood out from all the rest. How could one blow cause a man’s death, while another did absolutely nothing?

And Chris, enraged by Tom’s ignorance to his own actions, screamed:

“Because you are _mine_!”

The only noise that followed was the rush of wind through Tom’s open window, the steady hum of the truck’s engine, the blast of the air conditioning.

It stayed like that for an incredibly long two minutes, the words taking their time to settle on Tom. Chris couldn’t see how this was much of a shock to the Brit. He’d chosen Chris, after all, in that bar. Why else would anyone climb into a car with a murderer if not because of some admiration, some _affection?_ Chris was a fucking star and Tom was his groupie.

Right?

Chris glanced over to Tom warily.

It seemed he had missed the message.

“ _WHAT?!”_

Now, Chris had heard various degrees of Tom’s anger in just the past twenty-four hours, but this was on a whole new level. Incredulity paired with absolute rage gave Chris the idea he’d said something wrong. He didn’t _feel_ wrong, but if Tom was so angry, surely there was _something_ wrong with what he’d just said.

“Did you just say I was _yours?”_ Tom couldn’t understand what would drive Chris to believe that, of all things. Had Tom not just squeezed himself into a four by four stall with another man to prove just the opposite?

No, Tom would not be claimed, even by a man like Chris. Tom was not an object. He was a human being. A human being that was not going to let something like this pass.

“I _do not_ fucking _belong_ to you,” Tom seethed, hands clenching and unclenching, drifting towards the pocket where his knife was kept.

Chris watched him closely, fully prepared for an attack, but truth be told, he wasn’t in the least bit wary. Chris was just as enraged that Tom had acted as he had and, even at fifty miles per hour, he was certain he could take Tom in a fight at this point. Tom was not a naturally angry person. When he’d killed that cop, he’d done it with glee. He wouldn’t be able to handle himself in a fight of rage.

Luckily for them both, Tom seemed to notice that, for instead of to his knife, his hand tracked to his pack of cigarettes, but he wasn’t finished with Chris just yet.

“Let me make this _crystal_ fucking clear to you – as fucking _transparent_ as I can get it,” Tom cut, closing in on Chris’ space, “I do not belong to you. I will fuck whoever I want, and I will blow whoever I want, and you can do whatever the fuck it is you want with them after because that is _your_ fucking choice. My decisions do not belong to you, my body does not belong to you, _and I_ do not belong to you.”

“So you think…” Chris muttered, not having to look over to feel Tom’s scowl. In a matter of time, he would understand just what he was and who he belonged to.

Chris should have taken the following steely silence as a warning.

\-----

Chris could not have pulled up to the motel any sooner. The rusted red sign with the lights that flickered and buzzed with a dull electrical hum may as well have been a Hilton with Schubert playing outside. It was _stunning_. No longer did he have to sit in that too tense car with the bratty Brit from the third circle of hell.

He could have him in a bed. Show him who he really belonged to.

Chris pulled his truck up to the miniscule room that acted as a check in desk, peering through the hazy glass windows for any signs of cameras.

None.

Good.

Chris would have done anything to not have had to reach across the front seat into the glove compartment right in front of Tom, but it simply had to be done. He needed a hair tie and a hat _just in case._ Tom would have to deal.

Chris would not lie; it was some eerie shit putting his arm that close to Tom at a time like this. He could have sworn his hand passed through a force field of radiating independence.

Tom could be insufferable.

“Stay in here,” Chris demanded as he pulled his hair up into a ponytail and threw the cap over it, hoping that would conceal a bit of him. It was dark outside and the lamp in Check-In was dim enough that Chris was not in the least bit worried. Chris was the kind of guy that _did_ react well when he was angry, and if this man did happen to recognize him, Chris would have no problem with dispatching him. He’d had a taxing few hours back in that truck. He would _love_ it if someone fucked with him today.

He stepped out of the truck and, upon seeing Tom had not even attempted to take in his surroundings for escape, Chris added a derisive “Good boy,” and watched Tom’s jaw clench.

Tom could be adorable.

The smell of mildew was nauseating within the enclosed space, and if Chris’ senses were anywhere near as strong as they’d hoped they were, it was coming directly from the man behind the counter.

As Chris neared, he grasped just how correct he was.

“Checking in,” Chris stated brusquely, without preamble. This swamp-thing of a clerk didn’t need an introduction, and Chris really didn’t have the time. He glanced out the window and, realizing Tom had still yet to move, he gave himself a few more seconds time for communication.

“Room for two. No neighbours.”

That was it. He needed to get in a room to deal with his little problem once and for all.

As it turned out, however, Wally – the clerk – would need a bit more information than he was given.

Well, he wanted to know more than he’d been told. This motel clearly wasn’t one of the more frequented rest stops, and was most likely rented out for sex and murder, and Wally liked to have a bit of an inkling on what he’d be sending his wife to clean up the next morning.

“One night?” He rasped, pulling out a clipboard and writing on it as a doctor would with a patient.

He was taking notes. On Chris.

“Yeah, one night,” Chris responded, no more friendly, but a tad less forward so as to not raise every red flag Wally here had.

“You got a pretty lady in your truck there?” Wally grated, trying to peer around Chris’ frame to get a glimpse at Tom, which Chris was not allowing. Not only did he have a man in there – and he wasn’t sure how this guy would take that – he had a man covered in blood and probably a skull fragment or two. It was none of this guy’s goddamn business who Chris was with.

Besides, this guy wasn’t worthy enough to look at Tom.

“How much?”

With the little information he had, Wally could only assume his lodge would be used for sex purposes, which meant a raise in the price. You paid for sex around here.

“Fifty dollars for the room and a fifty dollar damage deposit,” the clerk read off, writing up the receipt as he wrote it. “You’ll get the fifty dollar damage deposit back if the headboard and bed posts, along with the shower curtain and bathroom wall are still in place.”

The price was ridiculous, but Chris signed the damned paper and handed over the hundred dollar bill anyway. He couldn’t drive without a destination for an unknown amount of time any more tonight. He had a man in his car that would probably sleep with the counter clerk here if it meant a room for the night. He had a Brit in the car that thought he had the right to run free—which he thankfully had not done – and so whatever he wanted, but Chris could not have that.

Not again.

“Blood stains larger than a dime deduct five dollars from the damage deposit, as well.”

Chris had an idea he wasn’t getting that fifty back.

He climbed back into the truck, room key in pocket, and drove off down the strip of motel to their room. It was on the back side of the motel, facing a fence and a line of dumpsters. Tom seemed _thrilled_ as he rolled his windows up to escape the smell, his prominent nose scrunched up.

Chris could care less. After you sat on a couch with two dead bodies so close to you, smell never really became a _huge_ issue. It was just an inconvenience.

With the truck thrown in park and the keys removed, Chris reached right back into Tom’s bubble of ‘radiating independence’ once more and took a hold of the strap of the Brit’s rucksack, sliding it just from beneath his legs before Tom could even grasp for it.

Oh, but he tried to. Unfortunately, like Chris thought, Tom didn’t think or react well when he was angry. He lost his spine when he lost his head, and he just wasn’t quick enough. Chris had the door slammed before his arm was even in reach.

The poor bastard was slipping, undoubtedly coming to terms with the situation he was in. Chris wouldn’t necessarily call Tom a hostage, for really, a part of him wanted to be in this, but he was, in fact, now stuck with Chris until the end. What Chris couldn’t tie him down with, Tom’s dependency issues could, and he’d sought Chris out for a reason. Maybe he saw Chris as an idol, he didn’t know. All he knew now was that Tom was his, and he was going to know it very soon.

Chris had expected the room he’d purchased to be a bit worse off than the one he’d stepped into. Either Wally’s customers really respected the idea of a damage deposit, or his housekeeping service was impeccable.

The room wasn’t the most colourful thing in the world – rust red walls to match the aging sign outside, and rotted wooden trim around the ceiling and floor—and though the dumpster smell didn’t make it in, the smell of mildew that had been so strong in the check-in counter was there, but it wasn’t that bad of a place.

On his right, there was a bed – not the cleanest, but large enough for two men of their height-- with off white sheets hanging from beneath a murky coloured comforter that, without a doubt, covered up the stains on the mattress Chris didn’t even _want_ to think about.  Next to the bed on the far wall, there was a door that led into a bathroom, and he could only hope there was a shower in there for they both needed one.

To his left, there was an old desk, a wooden chair, and an armchair that matched the walls. It was pretty well furnished for a motel, and Chris actually couldn’t wait to just sit somewhere that wasn’t the driver’s seat of his truck.

All he had to do to gain that pleasure was get a certain Brit off of his back.

Literally.

“ _What the fuck?!”_ Chris’ voice was strained for he was having quite the difficulty speaking around the two spindly arms that had wrapped around his throat, threatening to bring him down to the ground. Chris was strong, though and unlike Tom, he could function in this situation.  So, he did the first thing he knew to do to shake an assailant.

He slammed the Brit back against a wall, the unmistakable crack of his head mixing with the little pained grunt that escaped him as his arms came loose and he hit the ground in a heap of limbs, cradling the back of his head.

It would seem Tom was not happy with him.

“What are you—“

Tom was up again and lunging straight at Chris. Quick thinking couldn’t have helped him then, for before he could even process what was happening, Tom slammed right into his abdomen, and Chris’ back hit the edge of the desk, the wood grinding into his spine. He clenched his teeth and, with the might he could muster, he brought up his leg and kicked Tom off of him.

But that didn’t deter Tom in the slightest. He was back on Chris again, crawling around him like a damned spider, and Chris would have found it humorous had he not heard the _schnick_ of Tom’s knife opening.

Oh, shit.

Chris braced himself and, knowing the Brit wouldn’t be much of a cushion, he slammed himself down onto his back, thus onto Tom.

He heard the clang of the knife hitting the ground first and Chris, only a little reduced by the fall, jumped up onto his knees and spun around, grabbing Tom’s knife before he could even hope to. Upon seeing him, however, Chris realized he’d knocked the wind right out of the slighter man, and Tom wouldn’t be moving for at least a few more seconds.

He lie there, on his back, one hand over his abdomen as it expanded sporadically with uneven breaths, his mouth hung open and gasping for air. Chris could have broken something. He didn’t know, and honestly at this point, he didn’t fucking care. This fucking little prick had attacked him, had pulled a knife on him. He was tired of Tom’s fucking attitude, this notion that he was above Chris because he had a talented mouth.

Well, they would see who came out on top now.

With a hard jerk, Chris dragged Tom up by the collar of his shirt, the fabric ripping from the strain to the point where Chris just heaved the Brit’s body up by his arms and threw him to the bed.

He landed gracelessly, one arm folded beneath his body which lay at an odd angle. He was trying to unfold himself, coughing the whole time.

Chris thought Tom would have been a little stronger than that, would have lasted a _little_ bit longer, but it seemed he was quite useless when he was angry.

What a shame.

Chris, with the time he’d allotted himself with Tom’s recent injury, took the time to take off the ridiculous ball cap, to remove his shoes. He’d have to get Tom’s off without him kicking, but he’d let that sit for a few moments. There was nothing to tie him up with, so it would seem Chris would have to tire him out a bit more.

The bed dipped beneath the addition of Chris’ weight but, before Tom could react, Chris’ hand was around his throat, holding him down and squeezing the air out of him he’d only just gotten back.

“I’m fucking kind enough,” Chris spat at the man beneath him, holding down different limbs as they rose to push him off, “To give you a fucking ride and you attack me because I tell you the _truth?”_ He pushed a soft whine out of Tom as he pushed the flesh of his throat closer to the mattress.

“Do you value your life Tom?” Chris asked, watching as his captive’s eyes began to water. “Because I killed two men _very fucking close to me_ because they didn’t realize their fucking places in life.”

The news seemed to settle on Tom, his eyes focusing on Chris, the fear registering there, and the response interested Chris. Tom, despite the choices he’d made – in example, the hitchhiking and the fucking of strangers and climbing into a car with a butcher – he actually did value his life. He was afraid of dying. Chris had found a much needed weakness in Tom. It would simplify things for the both of them.

With that, Chris let up on Tom’s throat, backing off a bit so the Brit could breath, cough, and splutter. Tom rolled onto his side, clutching at his chest, and Chris wondered if maybe he had broken a rib or the likes. Tom _did_ look like he was having a bit of problem breathing, but Chris was a bit too distracted by the smooth and freckled collar bone he’d uncovered when he’d ripped that god awful shirt to really care.

“Alright,” Chris digressed, crossing his arms at the base of his shirt to lift it over his head, “Here’s how we’re going to settle this—“

He pulled the shirt up and over his head, fully prepared to wrestle those pants off Tom and claim him in the best way he knew, but instead of seeing a shattered man before him, he saw a hand and then he felt the sharp burning sting.

“Fuck!” Chris’ hand flew to his eyes where he could feel the blossoming of sticky blood beneath his fingers. Tom had _scratched_ him. Across the fucking eye! Chris _needed_ those!

He bounced back as fast as he could, moving to knock Tom down to the bed, but Tom had him again, this time overpowering Chris and knocking him flat on to his back.

Tom’s breathing still sounded so pained, but he was battling through it, mustering up the strength to deliver a strong right hook right across Chris’ face. Chris was momentarily stunned, and Tom took that opening to wrap his hands around Chris’ neck as Chris had just done to him.

So, Chris reached up for Tom’s hair and tugged, pulling him right off of him and reversing their roles again.

He straddled Tom and pulled him up by his shirt again, the damned thing ripping the rest of the way so that Chris just had to go for the back of Tom’s neck to pull him up.

“Now, you fucking listen to—FUCK!”

Tom had surged forward and sunk his teeth right into the meat of the juncture of Chris’ neck and shoulder, resulting in his hair being pulled back again, which got Chris a face full of spit and blood.

This was not how Chris had expected this night to go.

Okay, it was _kind of_ how he expected this evening to go, but the range of activities had been a bit excessive.

The following bite to Chris’ arm had been a bit much. The response of using Tom’s knife against him and only giving the Brit a slice across the cheek just seemed unnecessary. Tom’s attempt at breaking Chris’ nose was just unwarranted.

But Tom was getting tired. He wasn’t use to struggle, Chris could assume. He killed people quickly – not necessarily cleanly – so he looked like he’d never put this much exertion in an attempt to off someone before.

Well, it had been quite the detour, but now Chris was over this game. They were both spattered in blood and spit, Tom was still breathing like it was hard labour, and the area around Chris’ eyes was starting to swell from the welting scratches Tom had left.

It was time to get back on track.

It wasn’t difficult to flip Tom onto his stomach. All Chris had to do was punch him in it once and let him roll over on his own. Chris was a tad upset he didn’t get to marvel a moment more at Tom’s shirtless chest and abdomen, but the pale skin with the dusting of freckles continued on to his smooth back where Chris could count the knobs of the man’s spine if he wanted to.

And right now, he had other things on his mind.

Now, this was something Chris had never done before. Trying to find a way to restrain Tom while attempting to get those damned pants off was going to be a challenge, but he supposed it should be. You couldn’t just sit back and wait for good things to come to you. So, first Chris worked on keeping Tom from struggling.

He wrapped his hand around Tom’s neck from behind, two fingers trained over his Adam’s apple with firm pressure as he reached for the shredded fabric that had once been Tom’s shirt from the corner of the bed.

There, he found a restraint.

Tom struggled beneath him as he bound his hands – maybe a little too tight – and when he realized he no longer had access to them, Tom started to try shout obscenities at the top of his lungs, but Chris could see it was still hurting Tom to breath. Even so, he was getting out just enough to annoy the Aussie.  Chris wished he had saved a strip of cloth to gag Tom, but in the end, he didn’t want that at all. He wanted to hear how loud this man could get.

So far, Chris was impressed.

Chris had Tom pinned beneath his hips for the time being, trying to decipher just how he was going to get those pants off. When Tom’s breathing started to _almost_ even, and his yelling proved to be too distracting, Chris grabbed him by the back of the head and pressed his face into the musky comforter, muffling his yells and cutting off his air again, but there was nothing he could do about those kicking legs behind him. He’d figure it all out in time.

His first thought was to cut the pants off him, but the knife was too far away thanks to Tom’s attempt that grabbing it back. He’d sliced his own palm in the process.

Chris had an idea he wasn’t getting that damage deposit back.

Tom’s legs had begun to still, and Chris took that as a signal to let him up from the comforter for some air for a brief moment.

It was eerie just how quiet Tom was when Chris lifted his face back up. Tom was still except for his back rising and falling harshly as he gulped in breath after breath, but he seemed to be coming around slowly enough.

Chris pushed him back down.

Well, the best Chris could do was just force the pants off Tom. It would be a challenge, but honestly, Chris had Tom by around twenty pounds. It would be more inconvenient than anything else.

So Chris flipped Tom back over, pinning his bound arms behind his back and forcing a groan out of him. One hand found its way to Tom’s throat again as the other worked to open the button on his pants.

From this position, Chris could see the alarm strike Tom, could watch his eyes widen in outrage…and then turn to slits as he glowered at Chris. And for a moment, Chris actually stopped to meet that gaze, his own face expressionless.

Was he _really_ about to do this?

“Say you’re mine, and I’ll stop,” Chris demanded, and for a moment, his voice was soft. This could be over if Tom would just say those words. Chris wouldn’t have to _make_ Tom his. They could lie in bed like normal people, talk this out. Tom’s fate hung on his own answer. Chris was letting him choose his consequences.

“Burn in hell, Hemsworth.”

It wasn’t even close to the right answer, and it incensed Chris even further. He’d given Tom a choice – one that could have made his life so much easier – and he’d still chosen to deny Chris. In Chris’ eyes, Tom had chosen this for himself.

The pants Tom wore proved to be no problem at all when Chris was angry. When Tom had so foolishly tried to fight, Chris reached up and wrapped his hand around Tom’s already bruising throat and applied pressure there until Tom’s body began to go limp and his eyes threatened to roll back. By the time he’d let go and peeled the pants the rest of the way off, followed by the boxers, Tom had no fight left in him and Chris was free to take in Tom’s body as he lied there so still.

The arms tied behind his back made Tom’s collar bones all the more prominent, and Chris chose that spot to begin his claiming of Tom. He bent down low, one hand pressed to Tom’s forehead to keep his head back as Chris pressed his lips directly to the bone. It wasn’t anything near a kiss for, only a second later, Chris took the flesh just above the bone between his teeth and bit down hard, pulling an aggrieved sound from Tom as he sucked and sucked on tight flesh so as to make his mark.

When he pulled away, Chris could feel his own cock swell in his jeans. The mark was dark already, the capillaries beneath the cream-coloured skin now ruptured, allowing blood to seep into the tissue in a way so alluring, Chris _had_ to do it again.

He chose the same spot, knowing he wanted this mark to last, and also well aware of the discomfort it would cause the Brit beneath him. He bit down on the mark once before aggravating it again, sucking hard until Tom was trying to push him away. Unfortunately, the little noises Tom made were enough to make Chris _never_ want to stop, and by the time he actually did, the mark looked so overworked Chris knew it was painful.

But it looked so perfect on Tom’s skin that Chris _had_ to make more.

So he made two more, driven by the sounds of Tom’s discomfort that could so easily be mistaken for pleasure.

He forced a mark onto Tom’s lowest rib, feeling for any fractures or cracks as he did so, gauging Tom’s reaction as he pressed into ridge after ridge. When he deemed it safe – broken or not - he made Tom squirm again. It was probably Tom’s attempts at getting Chris off of him, but without his arms and the proper breathing, it was a fruitless effort.

The third mark went on Tom’s sharp hip where his skin was pulled tight over bone, and Chris bit down so hard he caused Tom to yelp and shudder. Chris had to hold him down to finish darkening out the mark to match the other.

Tom’s teeth were bared when Chris pulled away, his face flushed and his eyes still in those resentful slits. He knew where Chris was going. He knew Chris was scoping out every inch of his fucking prize, and had Tom the means, he would have skinned Chris alive, plucked those cerulean eyes straight out of his head and cut them open just to try and take back the images those eyes had processed. Tom wore clothes for a fucking reason.

For now, he had to deal with the sticky hand on his dick, smearing around blood from gods knew who…or what…or where, as Chris tried to coax him into hardness. Or just touch him. Tom didn’t know where his feelings fit into this, but had he an assumption: he would say he could probably shove his feelings up his ass…

Along with the finger that had just pressed in passed his entrance.

Tom’s entire body ceased up and his feet found traction on the mattress as he tried to push himself away from Chris. It was futile, for within only a push or so away, Chris had grabbed him right around the middle and dragged him back down the mattress, flipping him over and holding Tom down by the small of his back, Chris’ force just strong enough that Tom knew it was possible to have his spine snapped if he moved.

Chris was ‘kind’ enough not to laugh.

Tom burrowed his face into the mattress, gritting his teeth as Chris’ finger popped in to the second knuckle, where he then stilled it, just feeling the heat of Tom around him.

Tom wasn’t as tight as Chris would have liked. He hadn’t wanted to believe that Tom had actually let people fuck him on the road, but Tom was the type that was so fucking _eager_ to please. It only surprised Chris so much.

Chris forced a second finger into Tom in hopes of finding a bit more of a constriction, and when Tom tensed up and let out a dry sob into the mattress, Chris found it.

Slowly, Chris drew his fingers out, prompting another noise out of Tom that Chris took for pleasure despite the tensing of meager muscles and the way the skin dragged as Chris attempted to pull his fingers out.

The tacky and drying blood didn’t help either.

He was just lining up his third finger when Tom jerked beneath him.

“ _No!”_ He was struggling to get away again, but Chris still had a tight grip on him. He wasn’t letting go, and he knew the best way to stop Tom from moving was to just go through with it. Tom needed to know once and for all where his place was. Chris was risking this again. He knew Tom’s type now more than he had before. Tom was eager to please, dependent, and afraid of death. All Chris had to do was completely degrade him and Tom would cling to Chris and never let go. He’d live to please him for he would be worth no other’s time. He’d spend an eternity just trying to be worth something in Chris’ eyes again.

That was something Chris could live with.

He lined up his fingers again, dug his hand to the base of Tom’s spine again and—

“Wait! Please, fuck!”

And Chris stilled, eyes moving up to Tom’s face.

Were those tear tracks?

“Please. I’ve got….I’ve got lube in my bag. And condoms, just--” Tom turned his face into the mattress again as if internally struggling with himself for saying this, for allowing this, but – much to Chris’ pleasure – it seemed Tom was coming to terms with all of this.

He’d grab the lube, but not the condom.

It made Chris feel much better, knowing Tom made the others use condoms. Sure, he expected Chris to wear one, but you never fully claimed someone with a fucking Magnum.

“Don’t you fucking move,” Chris warned, climbing off Tom with a smile to see that the Brit was listening. He was already breaking him, it seemed.

Chris picked up his gun from the pocket of his jacket as he passed it, raising it to Tom just in case he tried anything, while Chris dug into the other’s rucksack. Had he not been so distracted right now, he would have focused more closely on the contents of Tom’s bag, tried to figure out a bit more about him. For now, Chris just focused on shifting through his belongings to find what he needed.

He grabbed the condoms first, knocking aside what had to have been a book, and pulled them out just for shits and giggles. He didn’t find it half as funny as he would have liked to when he realized there were only two left in the connected strip of foils.

Tom _had_ been getting around.

A further reach into the bag only infuriated Chris more as he came across the small bottle of lube, almost empty from its use. It wouldn’t be nearly enough, but it would ease this a bit for Tom. Just enough to the point where Chris wouldn’t feel like such an asshole.

He could say that he tried.

Chris dragged his feet back over to the bed, abandoning his gun back by his jacket – along with his pants - and crawled up behind Tom again, sitting on the back of his thighs to keep him from weaseling away.

He had about a dime-sized pool worth of lube in his hand when he turned the bottle upside down, and he swiped up just enough of it to slick his three fingers, leaving the rest to fist around his cock. He wasted no time in plunging his fingers back inside of Tom, fisting his own cock as Tom groaned and writhed beneath him. The fit was tight now, but Chris was only willing to put so much time into stretching Tom at this point. He’d waited long enough.

A few more thrusts and Chris withdrew his hand, leaving Tom to shake beneath him as he moved to spread the Brit’s trembling thighs and line the engorged head of his cock with the pulsating pucker of Tom’s entrance.

Tom was wrecked already, his fingers and wrists grabbing and twisting in his binds.

“Condom—“ Tom tried to implore, unable to make a full sentence in his haste. Everyone had used a condom and for a fucking reason! Tom didn’t know what these people had and an STD was just as fucking awful as a gun to your temple.

But all he got was a, “Sorry, mate,” and Chris was pressing into him.

Chris pressed right through the resistance Tom offered, refusing to stop even when Tom’s silent scream turned into an outright cry. This had to be done and the worst part was over in Chris’ opinion.

He surged in the rest of the way, punching the air right out of Tom’s lungs for the umpteenth time this evening, and before Tom could even adjust, Chris was creating a rhythm.

Tom’s shoulder blades strained at tight skin as his hands went white, his fingers curling and uncurling before turning into the fabric of his binds to keep himself grounded.

Chris stabbed into Tom’s body over and over, leaving the man beneath to writhe and sob and groan as his assailant focused on working himself to completion, focused solely on unmanning Tom and leaving him wanting – wanting Chris’s affection, wanting Chris’ approval, wanting Chris’ cock. It would be perfect.

The thrusts were getting easier as Tom either gave up or started bleeding somewhere inside the ridges of his warm velvet walls, and Chris found himself a faster pace to work with and fuck, Tom felt so good.

Chris had succeeded and forcing Tom down to his lowest and all he had to do now was finish it off. Tom was completely wrecked beneath him, completely at Chris’ will. He had been debased, he had been used, and by the time Chris spilled, everything would be the way he wanted it. He would probably have to deal with a bit of crying for a bit, but he could do that. Besides, he’d owe Tom a bit after this. He clearly wasn’t enjoying it.

“Oh, fuck, Chris! Yes! More!”

What.

“Ooh yes! Fuck me, fuck me, _fuck me_!”

Chris wrapped his arm around Tom’s middle and hoisted him up, taking a bruising hold on Tom’s already bruised hip and pounding into him harder. There was no fucking way this bastard was enjoying this. He _couldn’t._ He _fucking couldn’t!_

In an act of desperation, Chris reached up again, took a hold of Tom’s throat and pulled him up onto his knees, pressing down hard on Tom’s airway to keep him from _begging for fucking more._ He was supposed to hurt! He was supposed to be debased! Humiliated! He wasn’t supposed to fucking _like this!_

Chris was using him and Tom was trying to spread his cheeks with his bound hands so Chris could go in deeper.

What kind of sick fuck had he picked up on the side of the road?

He worked to hurt Tom now, finding his prostate and jabbing it over and over again until the thrusts wracked Tom’s entire body, until he gasped for air he couldn’t take in, and only when Chris thought he’d be the cause of the Brit’s passing out did Chris let go of Tom’s throat.

And when he did, Tom came, the rush of air throwing his concentration over the edge as he screamed aloud his orgasm.

He wasn’t supposed to cum. He wasn’t supposed to fucking find pleasure in this! And that fired Chris. That infuriated him to the point where he let Tom fall forward onto the mattress without his hands to catch him, and Chris fucked him straight into it until he knew it would hurt Tom again.

He wondered if it was possible. He wondered if there would ever be a point where Tom didn’t want this, and he thrust and he thrust, his anger alone keeping his orgasm at bay, until he watched Tom’s face switch from a sated grin to a twist of overstimulation.

He finally found that place.

Tom was twisting to get away again, his body spent and boneless, but Chris refused to let up. Not until he finally got Tom to beg him to stop.

It didn’t take much longer after that.

Tom’s bliss was short-lived, and Chris had him back to where he needed him. He was _crying_ for Chris to stop, which was much closer to what he needed.

The abuse went on for another minute or so, the seconds passing agonizingly slow for the both of them. Chris wanted nothing more than to cum, and Tom wanted nothing more than Chris to stop. They were both headed for a common goal, but physically there was nothing Tom could do but wait.

He was on the verge of vomiting when Chris finally spilled inside of him. He didn’t even have the energy to cringe at the warmth that flooded him - that spurted out around Chris cock when Tom was filled too full.

Chris collapsed on top of Tom, breathing in the sweat that curled his hair, panting heavily into his ear. There. It had happened. Tom was his. Sure, there had been a hiccup, but Tom belonged to _him._ He’d snared the little siren, and now…he felt a tad guilty.

Tom was an absolute wreck beneath him, his slender body convulsing here and there from the aftershocks of the mistreatment.

Chris rolled off of him, but kept him close. He’d taken this property as his, and now he would treat it as such.

He pulled Tom to him, and much to his inclination, Tom conformed to the space allotted for him, seeking warmth from the chill the cooling sweat had given his body.

Tom couldn’t form words. The ability was beyond him now, so he pathetically bumped Chris’ abdomen with his bound hands, silently asking for his freedom.

Chris didn’t give it to him.

Chris wouldn’t give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge bout of gratitude for [takemetothedungeons](http://takemetothedungeons.tumblr.com/) for creating [this wonderful graphic](http://thatjotunpotato.tumblr.com/post/58536298014#notes) for this fic. It blew my mind, now let it blow yours.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my sweet baby Sleipnir. Hi, guys. Im so sorry this took so long. University started back up and I just lost my will and ability to write. I hope you wont have to want this long for the next chapter and I do so hope you enjoy this one. Again, thank you for all the comments and kudos. The slay me in the best of ways.
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, my tumblr is TheJotunPoleDancer.tumblr.com

 Chris had not meant to watch Tom sleep. It was a degree of creepy not even he felt comfortable with, especially in the way he lay naked next to his person of interest and peered down through one good eye and one swollen from a fight he had had with said interest. It felt wrong in every sense – even more wrong than he had felt last night.

But Tom slept so peacefully despite what Chris had done to him, despite having his arms still tied behind him…and the clear difficulty he was having breathing.

They had probably slept for seven hours thus far and Tom had found a position on his front, arms lying dormant against his back. Every so often, Chris would watch Tom’s slender fingers twitch, but he would not stir. Tom’s breathing was laboured, but it was even.

Good. It would be a shame if Tom had to travel with a fractured rib. He’d never stop complaining.

Chris could see the bruises forming around Tom’s neck, and Chris could only pray the Brit had a scarf or he’d be sequestered to the truck for the rest of the trip. Chris had a feeling he wouldn’t have to worry about Tom running otherwise at this point, but those marks would do nothing but draw attention. Chris had been the one to make them and he was still transfixed by them…and they had not even been his best.

His best marks were hidden by Tom’s chosen sleeping position, and oh, how excited Chris was to see how those turned out. He had the time to see them before, but a refresher would not be frowned upon. The light purple bruises on his hips and throat just weren’t enough. Neither was the cut across Tom’s high cheekbone or the small split in his lip. No mark of assertion could compare to the mark Chris had sucked into Tom’s skin – had then mirrored on his chest and hip. They were beautiful and, now that Tom had them, Chris would have to make sure he kept them.

He would have no apprehension in giving them again.

In short, Tom was striking even at his worst. Even at his most disheveled and ruined, Tom was absolutely stunning, and…okay, yes. Chris felt a tad guilty for what he’d done—not what he’d started, but how he’d finished it.

Chris was about seventy percent sure, however, that Tom had enjoyed it even as his body was ravaged and his eyes rolled back into his head.

He’d picked up a special one, Chris had, and he didn’t know if he was lucky for such a thing…or dumb as fuck.

Either way, this special one was his, and in about an hour, they would have to check out sans security deposit and get back on the road. Tom had killed a cop – and Chris was certain that wasn’t all – and Chris had killed two men. They weren’t the kind of people that needed to draw attention to themselves for staying past check-out time.

So, Chris had to force Tom to wake and even that felt worse than forcing him into bed.

Yesterday, Chris would have nudged Tom sharply in an attempt to wake him, but today, they weren’t just two psychos on a road trip.

Okay, okay. Yes they were, but the dynamics were different now.

Tom belonged to Chris, whether he woke up accepting that or not. Tom wasn’t just some burden now. He was Chris’ property and Chris would take care of him as such.

Chris ran his hair through the curls that had curled and plastered themselves onto Tom’s forehead in the heat of everything that happened. He brushed them back and watched Tom – his Tom’s – dark lashes flutter and open…and then cringe and close.

“Oh, for fucks sake, you fucking dumb ass bitch mother fucker….”

Speak again, bright angel.

Tom turned his face into the pillow beneath his head an groaned loudly, his fingers twisting in the bonds his shirt had made, voice muffled as he ground out, “Ah ca’a hee’ aye arrs an ahm goi’ oo ca ‘or di’off.”

It wasn’t the time to laugh and Chris knew it, so he did his best to rein it in and ask ever so politely, “The fuck?”

With another dramatic groan, Tom turned his face away from Chris, eyes set on the yellowing wallpaper adjacent.

“I cannot feel my arms and I am going to cut your dick off.” Tom repeated, his voice thick and hoarse from sleep.

Or from being choked out multiple times. Whatever.

Chris would have laughed again – for it really was quite cute, Tom threatening him now – but he simply couldn’t because he’d taken one look at Tom and he must have stopped breathing.

His usual gunmetal eyes had taken on a shade of green today, and it was stunning.

“Don’t do that.”

So much for silent reverie.

“Do what?” Chris asked, finally moving to sit up and stretch out his—No. No, fuck, ow. Chris lifted his hand to his shoulder and grimaced at the amount of caked and dried blood he felt there.

Tom had literally taken a small chunk out of his shoulder.

That couldn’t be healthy.

And Tom realized it.

“Shit, that looks awful,” he—he was smiling again! But in those now-viridian eyes, Chris also saw a certain softness. It was either mirth or guilt, Chris couldn’t tell, but there was a though process behind that smile and that’s what mattered.

Chris just had to let that sit before he came across the bed and made Tom pay for marking him in turn last night.

“Go get a shower,” Chris said gruffly, laying a hand atop the one of his many wounds – he couldn’t wait to look in a mirror. “We’ve got to be out in an hour.”

And there was that expectant gaze again.

Fortunately Tom seemed to catch on to the fact that Chris wasn’t a mind-reader before they wasted any more time in this forsaken room.

“Am I expected to do this with my hands behind my back or….?”

Chris would have liked to do it that way; Keep Tom bound – not because he looked like he was going to run anytime soon, but because it really was a good look for him. Taut arms pulled back to reveal smooth and toned muscles, shoulder blades jutting…oh, it would be ideal to keep him that way. But it would also draw eyes and it was that reason and that reason only that made Chris lean over the side of the bed to grab Tom’s knife and cut the remnant of shirt away from his wrists.

Well, there were a few more marks that Tom would have to find a way to hide.

Tom’s arms dropped heavily to the bed, finally able to do so after his hours of stiff torment. His wrists were pink and raw in some places, but mostly there were just more bruises Tom had inflicted on himself while trying to get free.

Chris was starting to feel more guilt.

“Go on,” he pushed, crawling over to Tom on the bed and sliding a hand beneath his shoulder to flip him and get him moving, but it only made Chris feel all the more worse when he pressed right into the dark mark on Tom’s collar, forcing a hiss out of Tom.

  
“I’ve got it!” Tom insisted, swatting Chris away and oh, that didn’t feel very good on his arms either.

It wasn’t without difficulty that Tom forced himself up. He was understandably weak – though Chris strictly remembered doing all the work – and Chris wondered if he should have woken him a bit sooner.

It pained Tom to move his neck in certain ways and it was quite clear his throat was a little more than sore, but Chris thought the perfect discoloured outlines of his fingers on Tom’s throat made that worth it. His arms trembled as he tried to push himself up with them, but the new visual Chris had of that mark on his collar made it so worth it.

It had darkened so nicely, and it wouldn’t be going away anytime soon. It was a wine-coloured stain on the pristine ivory of Tom’s skin. Chris only wished the welts around the scratches on his eye would subside so he could see it more clearly.

Then, Tom was trying to stand, and bless him, his thighs shook when he was sitting. Standing was going to be a great feat. Tom was strong, though, and when he did get up, he had to brace himself on the side of the bed and just breathe through his nose for a moment.

Chris was beaming despite the short tug at his…heart?

“Tom, we’re wasting t—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Tom sneered, unwilling to have his pride poked at when he was honestly doing his best. It looked like he was going to say more, but instead he pushed himself upright and limped into the bathroom, their glorious moment cut with the slamming of the door.

It took Chris a bit more time to finally get himself up and moving. Watching Tom foal across the room had left him in a sort of funk and floored him for a few moments. He did what had to be done, and Tom had enjoyed a part of it, so why did he feel like shit? Sure, he used his body to a point where he was almost sure Tom was either going to vomit or pass out, but he had to do it. Tom made the most erotic noises when he was fucked, not too masculine but not outright feminine, and the control Chris felt had surged through him and willed him to go through with what he was doing, even if a part of him knew it was wrong.

He heard the water in the bathroom start running, and decided to take the time waiting for his own shower to learn a bit more about his partn—property.

Chris shuffled over to Tom’s little bag and immediately started rifling through it. The first thing he did was throw the condoms out. Tom didn’t like to be fucked without a condom, so Tom would not be fucked without a condom unless it was Chris pounding into him. Simple rule. From there, he lifted the bag into his lap and just started rooting.

He found Tom’s passport first and Chris took it into his hand like one would a three hundred year old tome. Chris was about to learn the most concrete information about Tom he’d probably ever have, and he felt a subtle thrill for that. He flipped it open without a moment’s hesitation more.

Thomas William Hiddleston. His last name was Hiddleston. It was so…royal sounding. Thomas William Hiddleston…Thomas William Hiddleston…Thomas William Hemsw—Hiddleston.

He was also older than Chris, which he never would have pinned. It made Chris a touch more proud to know he’d bested a man older than him but Tom was quite…small. Perhaps it was a bit unfair.

Tom being a British citizen wasn’t exactly eye-opening to Chris, but it was quite good to know he wasn’t faking that enthralling accent of his.

With the passport information aside, Chris dug a little deeper.

The second object he found was a book; An old book that had been taken care of quite well aside from a bit of water damage to the bottom corner. ‘Henry V’ the gold letters embossed into the read cardboard read. It was the only book Tom had, and that didn’t surprise Chris in the least. It just seemed so very Tom Hiddleston at this point.

Chris was momentarily distracted from his research when he heard something thud in the bathroom. It wasn’t heavy enough to be Tom falling, but he had most likely dropped something. Poor bastard probably couldn’t get a handle on anything.

Chris shrugged it off. Tom would figure it out.

With the book placed back inside, Chris sifted through a few other belongings – socks, a few pairs of boxers, the money from Errol’s wallet, toothbrush and toothpaste, a box of hair dye, and an envelope.

The hair dye should have been the item that raised the red flag to Chris, but instead he found himself pulling out a letter very much meant for Tom, with his name on the envelope and even in the greeting.

Chris read it anyway.

There were actually six letters stuffed inside the single envelope, all with the same heading. Chris had expected love notes or something of the like; keepsakes that brought back pleasant memories or grounded Tom when times became more difficult than maybe the Brit had once expected. He had fully prepped himself to learn Tom had someone back from where he was from, waiting for him to return from…whatever he was doing in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but no. Tom – in the little belongings he had – had decided to keep on his person a collection of rejection letters from a casting agency.

So, Tom was an actor. Or…he’d tried to be.

Chris read over the still dark type, traced every piece of cliché bullshit as his finger skimmed across the page. Tom had seemingly auditioned for the part of Henry V but, according to the letter, he ‘wasn’t what they were looking for.’ They all seemed copy and pasted from the same template, only the date, the recipient and the character name changing.

And Chris felt genuinely bad for Tom. No wonder he looked so sad when he wasn’t fucking Chris over or lodging knives into jugulars. No wonder he was so willing to please and looking for some sort of approval wherever he went. Poor guy had it rough. Tom seemed to be the kind of guy who would be great in the theatre. Hell, he’d fooled Chris a few times and Chris was trained to deal with lying. Chris could only assume the reception of these letters had somewhat devastated Tom at one point in his life, thus the worn splashes of lightened ink no doubt from tears when he’d first read the damned things.

Chris let out a frustrated sigh and stuffed the letters back into the bag.

God damnit.

Tom fucking would have a disheartening past.

And now he was in the shower because Chris had—

“Fuuuuuuck…..”ed him.

Chris combed his fingers back in his hair. What if Tom was one of those people who had come to America for a new start and this had been that outcome? What if Chris had single-handedly just thrown Tom over the tipping point in his realization all the world is made of scum? Oh, what if he made Tom feel like he was a failure everywhere? Chris had long come to terms that he was a despicable human being, but damn it, this was a new low.

He’d killed two men and this was his low.

Priorities.

He heard something else thud to the floor in the shower and a glance to the clock had Chris a tad bit worried.

They had to be out of here soon lest they draw attention to themselves…or the state of the room. Oho, this poor, poor room. Chris momentarily considered tossing a fifty on the table by the entrance so that whatever maid came in didn’t hate them too much. It’s not like it mattered in the end – something like that wouldn’t suddenly morph Chris’ path to hell to that of a better place – but they had fucked this room up.

The suddenly exclaimed “goddamnit!” that sounded form the bathroom was what finally got Chris up and moving.

Tom hadn’t locked the bathroom door and for that, Chris was grateful. His intentions might be a tad misconstrued if he had to kick the door in to speak to Tom.

 “Don’t freak ou—“

“What the fuck are you doing in here?!”

Chris had tried to warn him.

Tom’s silhouette in the shower curtain was a perfect homage to Hitchcock, but Chris didn’t want to think himself as the prettiest little butcher with the mommy issues, so he quelled the thought before it came to.

Though, Tom may have enjoyed a reference to the film…being an actor and all.

Chris didn’t have much clothing to shed so, before Tom could really fashion together an argument, Chris was stepping through the shower curtain and—woah, ow! Ow, ow, ow. Tom liked his water hot.

“Look, just—“

Tom threw the mini shampoo at him.

“Tom, don’t—“

The conditioner.

“Would you—“

The soap.

“Tom!” Chris didn’t raise his voice too loudly, just enough to get the other man’s attention. The other man who was currently presses against the grimy wall with mold lining the tiles. Ten minutes ago, Chris would have reveled in the fear Tom was showing towards him – a part of him still took it to heart – but overall he’d been a good boy and Chris was here to show Tom that he was a belonging Chris could treat finer than gold if Tom would allow him to.

“I’m not going to do anything…” He tried, not daring to step towards Tom for, in a shower so small, a step forward would be a threat and, whether Tom was afraid or just angry right now, Chris was sure Tom knew about twenty ways to kill a man with his thighs.

“Then what are you doing?” Tom challenged, and Chris was doing everything in his power to not make eye contact with the bruises he’d left last night. That would be far from comforting.

“I’ve got to shower too and we’re running short on time.”

Tom wasn’t an idiot. He knew just as well as Chris they needed to check out before someone came around and let themselves in to see the mess they’d created.

“Fine, but you have to wait until I get this shampoo out of my hair.”

Chris could do that.

He made enough room for Tom beneath the spray so that he could wash properly and if Chris didn’t know any better, he would say Tom was tempting him. Who turned their ass to someone who’d just—Chris shook his head. Tom was messing with him. They didn’t have time for games now. Besides, Chris could tell from his particular angle when Tom bent over to pick up the shampoo that it would be an awful idea to get a fucking in now.

It was on a whim that Chris reached forward to wash away a bit of blood Tom had yet to clean off, and the tensing beneath his fingers surprised Chris. Tom was sending off the most mixed signals Chris had ever received – one moment teasing Chris and the next flinching at his touch. Chris could only assume one of two things: Tom had no idea what he wanted, or he was trying to appease the man he belonged to.

He chose to believe it was the latter.

Within the next few moments, Chris was washing away flecks of dirt and blood left over on Tom’s neck, his shoulders, in the dip that trailed his spine that ran the length of his back.

Tom didn’t flinch anymore.

Chris liked it that way.

\------

They had five minutes before someone came knocking on their door to ask them just what they were still doing there.

Tom hadn’t spoken to Chris since they’d gotten out of the shower, and he really wasn’t moving as quickly as Chris would like. Five minutes and Tom was walking around shirtless, inspecting the tattered remains of his favorite blue shirt. He’d worn that through everything.

“Tom, come on,” Chris pressed, trying not be a total asshole, but well aware of how he seemed to have to talk to Tom to get a reaction out of him. “Why don’t you have a shirt on?”

“That was my only one,” Tom replied curtly, tossing the ripped shirt into his rucksack before looking up to Chris with those damned sad eyes.

Tom fucking would only have one shirt!

It was like he was made to make Chris feel like an asshat.

Chris was peeling the shirt off his back before he had time to think it over. “Here,” he said, “Wear that for now. We’ll figure something out.” The shirt was far too large for Tom - and red was so not his colour – but it really was the best Chris could do. Tom going around shirtless with his front looking like that was an awful idea.

Chris would have to buy him new clothes since he’d, you know, ruined the last bit Tom had.

He dug out another shirt from his bag and pulled it on. Black was no ideal in this sort of weather, but he’d rather be the one that was dying of heatstroke than to put Tom through—

Goddamnit.

“Go get in the fucking car.”

Chris couldn’t even take joy in Tom obeying.

\-----

They made it a full three hours before either of the men said a word. Tom had spent his time putting a dent in the junk food Errol had bought for him, reading the packaging when he would finish off a tasty cake or a bag of chips, and Chris could only assume that was because he’d wanted something to read.

The radio had finally come to a place where it would play music instead of the evangelists and country, yet every time Chris heard a song me might recognize, Tom changed the channel, tuning and tuning until he found radio plays or more talk radio.

Every so often, when Chris would look over, he’d see Tom silently repeating lines from the radio with different facial expressions. To Chris, it looked like Tom was perfecting the lines, but he could never be sure.

It was on a subconscious whim that Chris said: “You’d make a great actor.”

He didn’t miss Tom’s little hint of a smile after he said that.

He did, however, miss when it fell into a frown.

 ----

“My ass fucking hurts!”

Tom had been shifting in the seat for most of the ride now, but he had no outbursts until just now.

Chris couldn’t lie; He thought Tom would be acting a little…differently. He’d pictured being curled away from all day, but aside from the flinches in the shower, Tom wasn’t acting as if he belonged to Chris. He was a tad angrier here and there, but really, he’s stayed quite mellow. Chris was actually quite relieved of that to a point. He had no intention of changing Tom…just in making him less of a slut. Surely monogamy wouldn’t kill the Brit.

“I’d be concerned if it didn’t…” Chris muttered, a bit too caught up watching for his exit at this point. They’d need to sleep again soon, and he wasn’t really sure he was comfortable with Tom sleeping in the bed of the truck tonight. He would have to spend a bit more money on a motel. Perhaps they could act like civilized people tonight.

“No, you’d be inadequate if it didn’t,” Tom responded and—Wait. Was he joking about last night?

It was either that or he was insulting—no. _Complimenting_ Chris’ dick.

Chris briefly wondered if they should talk about it.

The night before. Not his dick.

But Tom had turned the radio up again, and the conversation was drowned out by what _had_ to be a remake of ‘Johnny Got His Gun.’

Tom knew every word.

\-----

Chris stepped into the new motel room _after_ Tom, for he refused to have a repeat of last night.

This room had been reasonably priced. Fifty for the night, twenty-five per person after Chris demanded some of the money Tom had gotten from Errol just to see if Tom would give it up.

He did.

Chris would pay him back later.

The interior of the room wasn’t as shady as the last place, but it was much blander. White on cream on yellowed on eggshell. There were windows with dark of curtain to let any light in when they were closed, and the lamp gave off an almost sickly bit of urine-coloured light, but there was a bed and a bathroom and that’s all the mattered to both men at this point.

Tom had started to nod off a few miles back, and had it not been for how damn adorable he looked when his lashes fanned his high cheekbones, it would have been another night in the truck. Chris would have found a way to make them both fit.

Tom hadn’t spoken much the rest of the trip here, and Chris wasn’t sure if it was because he was tired or still angry. Well, angry _at all._ Tom hadn’t given off the irritated vibe since after his shower. He’d stayed relatively distant for the state-drive today, but Chris wasn’t sure if that was because of the night before or because of the acting comment.

Either way, they were here now, and poor Tom was dragging his feet as he made his way to the corner of the bed to shuck his shoes off. Chris watched him go and clicked the lock on the door behind him before making his way over to the bed to do the same.

“We’ll be sleeping in the truck tomorrow,” Chris said, his back to Tom, but his words still meant for him. “So get good sleep tonight.”

Tom snorted.

“So, you’ll be _allowing_ me to sleep tonight?” He asked, dropping his bag next to the bed placing his socks and shoes next to it. Chris did not miss what he was implying.

“Don’t get smart,” was the only response he gave, before standing to shed himself of his jeans. Tom didn’t even look at him. Instead, Chris received the response of:

“Yes, _master.”_

And he _knew_ it was said sardonically and he _knew_ Tom was being disobedient, but oh, that phrase went straight to his cock.

Luckily, he was no longer a preteen whose cock would stand straight up at the thought of a willing and pliant sub beneath him

Chris chuckled lightly to himself.

Nah. He wasn’t _that_ fucked up as a teen.

Even so, the phrase had been uttered, and Chris was suddenly in the mood to test it – to see how far Tom’s sarcasm went, and to see how far his resolve would go.

He was just pulling out his book when Chris caught Tom by the wrist, took the book right from his hands. Tom didn’t flinch or move to pull it back. That was a good sign.

“I told you to get some rest,” Chris added, just challenging Tom to see how he responded. Chris was ready to defend himself if attacked.

And, to his amazement, Tom actually moved to crawl into the bed.

No way.

Chris cleared his throat.

“Aren’t you…wearing a bit much to go to bed, Tom?” Chris asked, giving the Brit a once over, fully expecting him to strip down to nothing before he moved to sleep.

And strip Tom did. Chris watched hungrily as the Brit stood of to the side of the bed and first removed the shirt he’d borrowed from Chris, then the jeans that – despite days of wear- still hugged his body so well. It was when he was standing there in only his boxers that he raised his eyes to Chris, and the look he received told him all he needed to know.

He stripped the boxers off then and, before Chris could tell him to stay still, Tom had burrowed into the starched motel sheets, already feeling grimier than he had before he’d showered that morning.

Chris smiled his entire way into the bed.

He stripped as well, opting to keep his own boxers on for multiple reasons – the main reason being he wanted to feel more secure than Tom did, and though Chris loved his body, he knew he looked damned good in his boxers as well.

He also really did not want to scare Tom this night unless he had to but that reason was pointless and romantic and overall, forgotten.

“Come here…”

The bed was only a queen size, and Tom could only roll so far away from Chris without getting out of the bed and, in Chris’ eyes, disobeying his orders.

It was almost endearing. Tom was acting as Chris wanted him to when this had all happened; vulnerable. Broken. As if he had been dominated. No, Chris didn’t want this behaviour to last forever – he _liked_ Tom’s sass – but he wanted to see it at least once.

And here it was.

He had Tom in his arms within mere seconds. He only had to reach across and slide pull Toms body back in one motion, his chest pressed up to Tom’s bony back, his legs entwined with the mile-long ones of the Brit…and it was…wonderful. Tom’s skin was warm, and Chris could still smell the shampoo from the hotel mixing with a scent so very Tom. Like the Jameson he’d had the first night they met, the smell of hair dye Chris could now place after seeing the box, the smell of sweets.

Either Tom liked this position, or he was far too tired to argue. Even when Chris’ fingers started to trail down his sides, up his abdomen, brushing over his nipple, and finally resting at his waist Tom didn’t fight.

Chris had never felt as accomplished as he had that night.

He stayed awake until Tom’s breathing evened – until the steady in and out of his soft breaths lulled Chris into a trance before dropping him into full-blown sleep.

He had not slept this peacefully since the night he’d murdered his brother.

\-----

“ _RISE AND SHIIIINE!”_

If the shrill tonality Tom had taken on in the wee hours of the morning had not have woken Chris up, the sharp slap to his backside would have.

“ _RISE AND SHIIIINE!”_

Chris’ eyes snapped open. He was face down on the bed, his face buried into a pillow, and there was a substantial weight on top of him that could only be Tom.

A look over his shoulder confirmed this.

“Tom, what the fu—“

His hands were tied. He couldn’t move his fucking hands.

“Tom, what are y—“

Chris’ face was pushed into the pillow in an exact mirroring of his actions only two nights ago. He wasn’t liking where this morning was going.

“The line is _I’ll rise, but I won’t shine,”_ Tom hissed, and with a handful of Chris’ hair, he ground Chris’ face into the pillow until Chris wasn’t sure whether or not the pillow would break his nose. He mumbled his protests, tried to buck Tom off, but it was no use. Tom was squared center on his back, all his weight pressed down between Chris’ shoulder blades.

“You wanna fucking try again?”

Chris’ head was lifted and before he could even gasp for air, he was trying to wrestle Tom off again.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Tom chided, and then he’d descended upon Chris, his chest level with Chris’ back, his mouth right by Chris’ ear. “We’re going to have a little chat this morning before you fucking go anywhere.”

He’d even used the shirt Chris had Tom tied up with. The last one Tom had.

“So, Chris.” Tom hissed directly into his ear, punctuating his preface with a sharp nip to the shell of his captive’s ear. “Let’s get this clear—No. Let’s make this _fucking_ _transparent_.”He had a sharp hold of Chris’ hair, and the Aussie was realizing, of all the people in the world who would probably scalp him, it was the one that was on top of him now.

“The _only_ reason you got anywhere close to my body that night and last night, was because I fucking _wanted_ it. Don’t pride yourself in thinking otherwise.” Chris erupted into another bout of struggling, not so much because he wanted to be free, but because he wanted to strangle Tom. He wanted to wrap his hands around that thin neck and drive him into the fucking wall…but Tom was tugging on his hair again.

“Now, let’s get this straight,” Tom continued, hovering just above Chris. “I do not belong to you. _You_ do not belong to _me._ Because guess what, motherfucker? _We’re not fucking property.”_ He let go of Chris’ hair, but he didn’t let up just yet. He squared his shoulders and placed his hands on either side of Chris’ head, entrapping him once more.

“So, here’s what’s going to happen.” Tom sat up now, and one glance back showed Chris that Tom was, in fact, still naked. It angered him more than it aroused him. He’d been dominated by a naked twink.

“ _I_ am going to leave you here to think this message over. In case you don’t remember it: _I_ am _not_ a _thing_. I am just the guy riding in your car, okay?” Tom gave Chris a sharp ‘pat’ to the cheek. “And while you find peace with that fact, _I_ am going to go out there—“ he waved his hand to the door – “and find a guy who will let me suck their dick for money, and then I’m going to buy you breakfast with that money, and we’re going to try this again. How’s that sound?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. In fact, he took an excess strip of the shirt and, when Chris moved to speak, Tom pulled the fabric between Chris’ teeth and tied it tight around the back of his head, not really silencing Chris, but at the very least, stopping him from enunciating his streams of curses.

Tom paid it no mind.

He crawled off Chris with a scowl still embedded on his face and grabbed up his jeans and slid them on – sans underwear Chris saw, and then he threw on _Chris’_ shirt. The one Chris had let that fucker borrow just yesterday.

And then Tom was heading for the door, leaving his bag and carrying only his shoes.

“See you in...half an hour.”

And the door to the motel room shut.

And Chris was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge bout of gratitude for [takemetothedungeons](http://takemetothedungeons.tumblr.com/) for creating [this wonderful graphic](http://thatjotunpotato.tumblr.com/post/58536298014#notes) for this fic. It blew my mind, now let it blow yours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, guys! Wait wasn't THAT bad, right? With a smile I say that in three weeks, my production in university will be over and I will have more free time which hopefully means more frequent updates. We are a little past the halfway pooint, though! Shameless self-promotion and Ill call it a day: You can follow me on tumblr (www.thejotunpoledancer.tumblr.com) and maybe hear some great news about this story and my others. Heh...Heh heh.
> 
> Anyway, its the chapter youve all been waiting for. Thank you guys so much again, like from the deepest pits of my heart. The response to this is fantastic and really makes me want to write more.

Twenty-two heartbeats.

Chris kept his cool for twenty-two beats of his heart after Tom closed the door. They were elevated, admittedly, and he'd nearly lost count twice, but technically, he'd done the 'count to ten when you're angry' rule.

And it hadn’t done shit.

He _thrashed_ on the bed, against the bonds of the dingy fucking shirt, twisting his wrists and turning them until the muscle along his shoulder strained. That wasn't going to stop Chris, though. At this point, he already had an eternal crick in his neck named Tom. Another wouldn't hurt him.

Training at S.H.I.E.L.D had taught Chris the basics of escaping - whether from terrorists, common criminals, gun point or from handcuffs. Twisted t-shirts had not been in his training. The only heads up he had was to not break his wrists. That was most ideal at this point.

He was rubbing his skin raw at the wrists, and the fabric had begun to burn where it chaffed, but Chris powered through. His teeth were gritted together, his jaw set, and his veins popping. Tom knew how to tie a knot - and had it been any other time, that would have excited Chris - but Chris had stamina.

As if Tom didn't know that by now.

The ripping of fabric was Chris' cue to just _pull,_ so he did and was rewarded seconds later with two very red wrists freed at his sides. They hurt to rotate, hurt to bend, but Chris powered through throwing on his clothes, twisting open the door knob and climbing into his truck. He had three hours before check out.

He had to find Tom.

\-----

And it wasn’t all that hard to do.

Chris just had to listen past his pounding heart for the sound of complete and utter hubris and pray that it was Tom’s common arrogance and not some other sack of shit from around the town that he picked up on. It didn’t take long. Chris had been gearing up to jump in his truck and drive the town until he found Tom, until he found that little prick, but he’d not even had to step foot in his truck.

As it turned out, Tom hadn’t even made it out of the complex the motel was located in, which was good for both Chris and Tom, himself.

It wasn’t hubris that ended up leading Chris to Tom, it was the sound of grunts, the sound of skin on skin, the sound of…crying out in a way more pained than pleasured.

The sound of a very southern man yelling, “You fucking faggot.”

The door to the room was wide open, just seven or so lots down. Chris stood in the doorway for maybe a second, just taking in what was happening, planning out his attack.

There was Tom, crowded by a guy in the corner of an identical hotel room to the one he had just tied and left Chris in. The man that held him there was nowhere near where Chris would have expected. He was standing above Tom, sure, but…Tom wasn’t between the guys leg with a dick halfway in his mouth. Tom was huddled on the floor with blood pouring from his nose, holding his hands up in an attempt to stop the man who kept kicking him, punching him.

Tom had his charm, but in a world like this, it was unrealistic to think it could work on everybody.

Chris didn’t even bother to close the door.

He cleared the expanse of the room in less time than could be fathomed and _ripped_ the man away from Tom’s body. If Tom was still cowering, Chris didn’t know, for he was so caught up on making this man pay for what he had done.

He didn’t have to ask about what had happened. It was obvious.

Tom would later say, “It’s no big deal, it’s happened before…” but Chris wouldn’t believe him. He’d seen Tom fight, and he’d seen Tom protect himself. This had surprised Tom. His normal come-ons had never been denied. Tom knew people; he knew how to _read_ people. Perhaps it had been Chris who had thrown off his judgment this time around.

Oh well, at least Tom had picked a wonderful candidate for Chris to take his rage out on.

Chris had never heard a skull crack until this day.

He dashed the man’s head into the wall without question once, twice…three times, four. He bashed and bashed until the man in his arms went limp and he could see Tom standing in his peripheral, wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve.

Chris would have to give him another shirt.

\-----

They didn’t talk about it while they packed their things.

They didn’t talk about it while Chris washed his hands of the crimson that stained them.

They didn’t talk about it while Chris checked them out of their room.

Chris had decided to stay silent. Even miles away, Tom’s hands still shook, his eyes still leaked tears here and there, and he was clearly in a lot of pain.

He’d suffered enough for what he’d done.

In fact, the only thing Chris said miles down the road was, “So…how about that breakfast?”

\-----

Tom sat before Chris at the little low-profile diner. His nose had been cleaned up with a bottle of water and the now thrice-recycled rags of his shirt. He was dressed now in one of Chris’ smallest shirts, green in colour. It fit Tom nicely.

Tom had stopped looking so defeated at some point, and now he just looked wildly un-amused.

His nose had a sharp cut across the bridge from what Chris could only guess was the man’s ring. The blood was cleaned up, but the bruising was already beginning, the swelling as well. Matched with the marks Chris had left on him, Tom looked like quite the case. Chris was wondering if it was a bad idea to bring him out in public even at a place like this. The last thing he needed was someone calling the police due to their thinking Tom and Chris were in an abusive relationship.

Also known as: the truth.

But he couldn’t make Tom get up and stop eating.

He’d not said much about what had happened. He’d just stuffed his mouth with fruit and hash browns, his temple resting on his fist. If Chris didn’t know any better, he’d say Tom was embarrassed.

Chris decided he should probably strike up a conversation.

“How’re your—“

“Thank you for—“

At the exact same time as Tom.

“I’m sorry, you—“

“What were you—“

They both quieted down for a few seconds, both trying to gauge when the other would speak. Chris put his hand over his mouth and pointed to Tom, who was just in the process of pointing to Chris to go first.

This wasn’t working.

“Okay, I’m talking,” Tom said quite plainly, hand raised in the air to silence Chris before he could even try to speak.

“Thank you for uh… _that._ Truly.” Tom looked directly at Chris when he spoke, and that was a little unnerving, even for such a heartfelt bout of gratitude. As Chris knew, Tom was afraid to die, and where Chris doubted that man would have beat Tom to death, had he continued, he probably would have done away with the looks Tom so relied on. Tom also did not deserve to be beat in such a way for offering a man a good time.

“No problem.” Was Chris’ very lame response. He had to watch what he said in this situation. This was delicate – carrying a stack of china cups over a floor or marbles kind of delicate.

“I’m sorry I… tied you up…” Tom chuckled, looking down at the scrambled eggs he’d been knocking around the plate for the past five minutes.

“I got out,” Chris shrugged, looking over Tom’s face whenever he looked away.

It was terrifying to Chris in a way to think he could have lost Tom just then. Tom had successfully restrained him. Had Tom gone out and just so happened to hit on a guy who had a gun or a knife…Well, he’d like to think Tom would have made it out with his own skill, but…he couldn’t even get away from a guy’s fists.

There was a pregnant pause then, filled with Chris slurping back his coffee and Tom…staring at him as he usually did.

“What?” Chris asked, brow quirked. What did Tom expect _already?_

“Don’t you have anything you’d like to apologize for…?”

Oh, he knew where this was going.

“I’m sorry I said you belonged to me,” Chris said with a shrug, as if he were merely apologizing for stepping on Tom’s toe. The quickness and sincerity behind it took Tom aback, and sure enough, seconds later Chris saw his favorite smile in the world.

Because Chris was sorry he had said Tom belonged to him…

Out loud.

“So…we start over,” Tom offered his hand over to Chris with a smile. “Tom Hiddleston.”

Fucking weird.

Chris didn’t see how you could just start over with a guy you’ve seen naked and fucked senseless then been tied up by and then saved his life, but whatever.

“You know who I am,” he responded with a smirk, and Tom’s laughter was a good enough answer to that.

\-----

They waited to talk until they were both back in the truck and on the road. Three more states and they would be home free. As they got closer, they could talk about what they were going to go, how they were going to part ways, _if_ they were going to part ways. But that could wait. For now, they had some preliminary stuff to go through.

“Who the _fuck_ gets into a car with a known murderer?” Chris asked with a burst of laughter, turning only momentarily to look at Tom, to catch those crinkles at the side of his eyes when he laughed.

“Someone who wants a bit of adventure,” Tom responded, matter-of-factly, but Chris knew there was more to the answer, and Tom knew he expected it.

“Someone who thinks they can take care of themselves,” Tom added with a little smirk.

That, of course, prompted Chris’ next question.

“And why does this certain someone believe they can handle themselves?”

Tom gave Chris a sidelong glance, a little smirk twisting at the edge of his thin lips.

“Are we having this conversation? He asked, and when Chris seemed to choke on his answer, Tom said, “It’s only fair if you tell me your tale afterwards.”

It was a few minutes more before Chris grunted out his agreement.

He wouldn’t go back on it.

“Well…” Tom began with a clearing of his throat, “then, let’s see…” It took him a moment or two to gather his thoughts up. For a moment, Chris thought he’d gone back on it, had decided not to tell him. And why would he? He only owed Chris for potentially saving his life.

“So, I think I can assume you’re _not_ a cop,” Tom started with a laugh before his smile fell and he looked down at his hands. Right. Chris was sort of a cop. “I’m sorry,” he chuckled almost awkwardly, “I really haven’t shared this with _anyone.”_

Chris was just about to tell Tom he really didn’t have to when Tom began.

“It was…I guess about five years ago now.” His eyes searched the ceiling of the truck as he thought, as if he could find the answers there. Chris took the brief moment to stare at the still dark hickey on that lean neck.

“Yes. Five years ago. I had just graduated from University and – you have to understand, I _really_ thought I was going to be an actor.” Chris had seen that thus far, and he had a feeling that letter he’d found in Tom’s bag was about to make sense.

“No. No I _knew_ I was going to be an actor, and I kept this journal of every audition that I went to and it just…” Tom’s fingers tapped at this lap. “Every single audition rejected me. I had this _ridiculous_ curly blonde hair and they said…they always told me I just _wasn’t what they were looking for.”_ Tom rolled his eyes.

“So, this one evening, I decided to take a friends advice. My friend, Eric, he told me that I should go out and drink the night before so that I wouldn’t even _care_ when I went to the audition about how I did.” He laughed more at himself than anything else. “That never works, you know? But, while I was out, I met this _guy.”_

Chris’ eyes cut into slits, a rush of jealousy coursing through his veins…but he quelled it for that moment. He’d killed one guy today. No need for another act of cathartic violence over a damned story.

“And this guy was…gorgeous. Older, definitely, but gorgeous… and he kept buying me drinks and we talked and…”

Tom’s voice dropped off again, and Chris saw a flash of… _something_ in Tom’s eyes before he focused them forward on the road ahead. There was a significant softening of his voice when he spoke again.

“He gave me his card sometime during the night and…he worked for this theatre company. This theatre company performing _Henry IV,_ and it was—Prince Hal is my _dream_ role. And…he like, he was the head of this company. Casting, producing, directing – a real theatre snob – and he told me…He told me I would be perfect for the role.”

And then there was that smile, alighting Tom’s face, but Chris was sure it was _not_ because this story ended well.

“I was so elated, I just – I shouldn’t say just…It limits the action – but I kissed him. Square on the mouth. I was a little tips—I was _drunk_ and I just…I was only twenty-three, and I think we all do stupid things then.” At least, it was clear Tom had convinced himself of that.

“We fucked in the bathroom,” Tom said rather abruptly, and Chris felt the need to slam on the brakes and lurch the truck over, but he didn’t. He just continued to listen to Tom, grip tight on the wheel.

“Well that was…short-lived, and—Yeah, you know. I thought that guaranteed me the part. When a guy calls you ‘Hal’ when you're pressed up against a bathroom stall, completely out of Shakespearean context, _yes,_ you think you have the part.” Seemed simple enough to Tom.

But Chris supposed he knew how this ended.

“What did you do to him?” Chris asked, turning his eyes to glance at Tom only briefly. He was holding together pretty well. Chris was almost sure he’d never see Tom as scared as he had been when he’d pulled that guy in the motel off of him ever again.

“Well, after I received the letter you read yesterday –“ Busted. “He invited me over to _talk_ about it.”

Tom rolled his eyes and seemed to dismiss a thought in his head before he said it.

“He thought he could _make_ it up to me, since I was _his boy_ and all.”

Oh, Chris didn’t miss that little jab.

“He set it up really nice. Candles, music, dimmer switches – the whole fucking nine yards. He had this really nice house, and this _huge_ Jacuzzi and he…he invited me to ‘cleanse myself of this moment in time.’ Like I said, real theatre douche, and…well, I almost took him up on it.”

When Tom paused, Chris thought it was best to ask:

“Well, why didn’t you?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and there was that smile a-fucking-gain. Chris would not deny the chill he felt down his spine.

“Because I realized he was playing the music out of a boom box from the eighties.”

And Chris didn’t get it. He stared at Tom for a good few seconds longer than he should have had his eyes off the road, and that actually elicited a laugh out of Tom.

“That sounded much snobbier than I think I meant it to,” he laughed, placing his hand on Chris’ knee. “Let me…I shoved the radio into the bath and watched him fry to death. I think that’s clearer.”

Yes, that was much clearer…and the disturbing aspect of it had significantly increased as well.

When Tom started to speak again, however, Chris nearly jumped. He hadn’t expected the story to go on.

“The trial lasted…fuck, two years?” Tom paused. “No…closer to three.”

Chris had to stop him then, just for a moment. He had to process the fact that Tom’s past was…maybe a little worse than he’d expected and _now_ Tom was telling him that he had been _caught_. He had been _busted_ – he had lived Chris’ worst fear.

And how the fuck was he living to tell the tale?

“You see, I knew I was a goddamn good actor,” Tom cut when Chris asked him to resume. “I _knew_ my story before the bobb— _police_ even got to the house.” Tom had, Chris learned as he told his story, been the ones to call the cops.

“I can cry on cue,” Tom said proudly, “and I did _every_ session.”

He’d _acted_ his way out of a trial.

“He was a _total_ asshat, and _no one_ liked him. It was easy enough to have everyone buying my story. You should have seen me back then. I _literally_ looked like a golden retriever.” And who could argue with a golden retriever? “I would just bat my eyelids, wipe a tear, and tell them I didn’t know how it had happened. We’d just been planning a romantic evening and then…I walked up the stairs to… _that.”_

Chris could physically _see_ Tom taking on the role. His eyes grew rounder, his lip quivered. He looked genuinely distraught.

Chris almost believed he didn’t do it even after the confession.

“How could they think _I_ could do that, you know? Like…when the police got there, I was wrapped in a sheet, sobbing in the floor. Certainly a boy, well-raised as I was, and such a good student in school, would never malign himself in such a way and be found so…exposed. Broken. You know what I mean?

He dropped the act and Chris felt…pretty uncomfortable.

“So I got out of it, but…that thing follows you, you know?” Tom asked, now fully engaged in Chris’s reactions. “You can’t just…stay there. Guilty or not, people stare. You don’t get jobs. Not when you’re the talk of the damned country.” Tom rolled his eyes, shrugged, and faced forward once more.

“So I moved to the states and…now I’m just trying to better myself.”

And for the first time since this all started, Chris laughed at that. Yes, Tom was trying to _better_ himself. They were…almost finished with their escape and they’d left…three dead bodies in their wake?

Yes. Their slates were _definitely_ cleared.

“You’re doing a hell of a job there, mate,” Chris laughed.

And Tom didn’t respond.

\-----

Tom didn’t hear Chris’ story for another hour after his story was finished. Chris had told the Brit he needed a moment to ‘think,’ and thus had left Tom in total silence for an hour. He should be used to it by now, but…he wanted more feedback. He wanted to hear how well he’d done with that fucker of a casting agent. He wanted to hear from Chris that he’d done well.

But Chris was silent, his brow furrowed as he thought, and Tom was back humming _Chicago_ songs.

If ever there had been a musical he could do in drag…

\----

“Alright, so…This is actually…”

Chris had tried to start off his story around five times now. It was difficult reliving it. It hadn’t been _years_ ago. It had only been weeks and…Tom’s story was one to tug at heart strings up to a point, yes, but Chris…He honestly didn’t know if he could do it.

“I _knew_ there was something up.”

But, for some reason, he _really_ wanted to try.

“I worked…seven days a week. S.H.I.E.L.D made sure of it,” Chris started.

They’d pulled over to the side of the road a while back. There was nothing around them for _miles._ Just a dusty expanse of western road, spiraling towards a stagnant horizon.

“I was in this program…I did Spec Ops. I was big, I was ‘scary’…I knew how to take care of criminals. And I busted _so_ many people. Drug lords, murderers, fucking…womanizers.  I got them _all,”_ Chris was smiling for the moment just as Tom had. It was a _good_ time then. Everything was perfect – Chris had a career, good pay, someone to come home to every night – It was _immaculate._

Or, so Chris thought.

“I had a lot of potential, you know? Like…you with acting. I just _knew_ I was going to be in charge of my district. I was going to be the fucking _greatest…_ and because of that, I really stayed at work more than I should have.”

Chris tapped his hands on the steering wheel as his thoughts aligned themselves.

“Aleks was…a year younger than me. He had…” Chris swallowed thickly and covered it with a laugh. “…curly blonde hair, and he was lean and…God, he could quote Zoolander back and forth…and he made…the _best_ quiche—and I didn’t even fucking know what quiche _was_ before we met and—“

Chris digressed with a crack of his knuckle.

“We were supposed to be married…I guess two months from yesterday.”

Tom didn’t look in the least bit like he was having the good ole time he thought he’d have in sharing these stories.

“He’d—Aleks had been hanging out with my brother Liam. Planning for the wedding, because I just didn’t have the time, you know?”

And Tom instantly knew where that was going.

“I came home one night – and it wasn’t even a surprise – he _knew_ I was coming home and… I guess Aleks was _trying_ to make me jealous. Maybe not, but…”

“You caught them doing number seventeen,” Tom interjected solemnly, and Chris quirked his eyebrow.

“Number seventeen?” He asked, clearly missing a reference.

“The spread eagle…” Tom replied meekly and, once more, Chris was laughing at one of the most inopportune moments. But…it felt okay because Tom was laughing with him.

But it faded as quickly as it started, and Chris could feel those expectant eyes…and he knew there was more to tell.

The silence lasted only a minute.

“It just…I wish I knew how long it went on, you know? Maybe it had only been the one time they’d…done it…or maybe it was the fucking fiftieth. I don’t know…” But Chris would never be able to erase the image of his fiancé bent backwards over the bed with his brother pounding into him.

“I shot my brother first,” Chris admitted. “Like, without a _thought._ I just pulled my gun and fired straight through his head and Aleks…”

Tom heard Chris choke back something – a confession, a sob – Tom didn’t know, but he was suddenly none too happy with what was happening here.

“He screamed and he fucking screamed and I tried to…” Chris cleared his throat, looked down at the steering wheel. “I guess I really didn’t try anything. I grabbed him by the hair and I dragged him out of the bed and—“

“You shot him,” Tom finished for Chris, because honestly, he didn’t want to know the thought process from there. He had an idea of where that little jealous possessive tick of Chris’ came from and he did _not_ want to exacerbate it any further.

And luckily it seemed to, at least, do the bare minimum.

“I shot him,” Chris confirmed, dipping his head down.

It was funny that, in the long run, their stories were quite similar. Perhaps Tom noticed it first however, for in the silence that followed, he was the first to move.

Chris was the first to speak.

It took him forever to clear that funk out of his head, and he had to be honest, it did feel better to get it out… and for Tom _not_ pulling out a badge afterward and saying he was with the police and he had the whole confession on tape.

“Do you still think you can handle yourself?” Chris asked, and it would have been bitter if this Brit didn’t lo—didn’t remi—

“As long as I have a shirt, I think I’m okay,” Tom responded with a weak little smile, and then the silence settled again.

So, Tom was escaping just as Chris was. He’s suspected this but… He still didn’t understand _why._ Tom didn’t have people after him anymore. Well, with his new track record, maybe, but…Chris just didn’t know. All he knew for certain now was that their playing field had been leveled. They were, in a sense, one in the same person, and they were both in this together.

It was that thought that made Chris reach for Tom’s hand—

And it was that action that made Tom pull his hand away to dip into the bag of sweets that still rested at his feet.

Chris was confused for a moment and almost hurt. No, not hurt. Almost _angry._ Tom was deliberately doing this to…to…

Tom straightened back up with a smile and held out his hand to Chris, his eyes soft and his brows ticked as they had been in the bar when he’d asked Chris to share his fries.

Chris’ eyes followed the length of Tom’s arm, and it _had_ to roll his eyes when he saw the wrapped pastry in Tom’s hand and heard him utter the question:

“Ho-ho?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge bout of gratitude for [takemetothedungeons](http://takemetothedungeons.tumblr.com/) for creating [this wonderful graphic](http://thatjotunpotato.tumblr.com/post/58536298014#notes) for this fic. It blew my mind, now let it blow yours.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Thor The Dark World along with school teamed up to destroy me, but I am here and I have chapter! Now, seriously guys, thank you so fucking much for all the love for this fic. Its my first and its my baby and you guys make it worth it. Thank you so much and enjoy!

Tom was almost certain that the rusted tailgate of Chris’ truck was slicing into his thighs each time he was forced into it.

It would concern him if he was not numb from the said area and down.

He wasn’t sure how Chris had come to the decision that _now_ was the time to fuck, but sometime between one tumbleweed and another, he’d hit the brakes and wrestled Tom down into this position -  bent clean over the opened tailgate, arms held behind his back.

Tom had a feeling it was because he’d asked if they could stop and pick up some clothes from somewhere and had offered to suck Chris’ dick in payment – as Tom was apt to do.

Oh, nope. This was definitely happening because he offered to suck a store clerk’s dick.

Right.

“Woah there, Lennie,” Tom panted out in lieu of a cry when Chris accidentally pulled back too far and popped himself out of Tom’s ass before _shoving_ back in.

“Who the hell is Lennie?” Chris grunted, neither his brutal thrusts nor his bruising grip on Tom’s hips faltering.

He could still feel that.

“Of Mice...and _Men!”_

Oh, that was his prostate.

“I don’t know what the fuck you ar—“

“ _It’s a fucking book!”_ Tom hissed between clenched teeth, the perfect alignment of the head Chris’ cock to his prostate making him far from interested in a discussion of literature.

The hot western sun was unforgiving on Tom’s fair skin, and he had broken out into a sweat a long time ago. The black lining that covered the bed of the truck was none too kind to him either and yet, despite his discomfort, he could feel his abdomen tightening his oncoming orgasm.

People were going to start to think he was a masochist.

“Chri— _ah–_ I’m close…” Tom moaned, pressing his face into the dirty truck bed just for some sort of grounding. Without his hands he felt as if he needed enough counterweight to hold him up when this was over. His legs were going to be asleep for some time.

“You wanna cum?” Chris asked, pushing another humiliating cry from Tom. “You wanna cum for me?”

“I want to cum for my goddamn sel—“ Tom began to argue, but sure enough, Chris wrapped his strong hand around the base of Tom’s dick, keeping him from doing just that.

“You better start begging,” Chris laughed and, just to make his point, he snapped his hips faster, making sure to prod and drag his cock over Tom’s prostate until the Brit couldn’t help but cry out and beg like the whore Chris had once thought him to be.

Well, that Tom had been proven to be.

Chris came first, filling Tom’s awaiting ass before letting the rest of his seed spill into his own hand so as to ease his fisting of Tom’s cock.

He _still_ had not used a condom.

Tom did not last much longer after that. Chris admired the way the Brit’s eyes clenched shut and his mouth opened in a silent scream before he spurted his release all over the desert sand beneath their feet.

Chris was kind enough to hold Tom up for a few moments. He even helped him into the truck after the initial aftermath passed. He had also, however, wiped his cum-covered hand down the back of Tom’s shirt before saying:

“Yeah, mate. You need some new clothes.”

\----

When they arrived at the seemingly ever-present Wal-Mart, Chris having been clearly directed on where to park, Tom had finally stopped complaining about the fact that his legs had been asleep for an hour. Chris had been forced to give the Brit back his knife to keep him from whining any longer, and it should have concerned Chris how Tom took to it like a child being handed candy.

“You can’t take that into the store with you,” Chris had informed him, and yes, it was because – being now aware of Tom’s back story – he thought Tom would use it. Chris had already informed him they didn’t have enough money for clothes and a motel, so Tom had to decide. In true Tom fashion, he chose both. He was convinced he had a plan.

“Of course I can take it in,” Tom smiled, flipping the knife closed with a practiced expertise and shoving it into the side of his boot. “I only need to be wary about pulling it out.”

Tom cut the joke before Chris could make it.

“Alright,” he started off rather rapidly, “I need three shirts, a pair of pants and underwear…” Without much to preface the action, Tom bent over the seat to grab up Chris’ backpack and tossed it at its owner.

“You take this, and you get those things,” Tom instructed, and Chris was quick to argue.

“Hey, wait,” he cut, “I’m not getting my ass arrested for your boxers.”

“Boxer _briefs,”_ Tom corrected. “Preferably black – and no, you’re not.” And then Tom put his hand on Chris’ shoulder and added, “Hey. We’ve been running for this long. Trust me. Stealing clothing is much easier than popping out someone’s eyes.”

Chris really needed to know if Tom knew that was true first hand, and Tom’s only response was a little popping noise with his lips.

Chris had a feeling he still had _a lot_ to learn about this one, but hey, he had plenty of time. He really wouldn’t mind another sharing session sometime.

But later.

Much later.

“And what will _you_ be doing while I grab your _preferably black_ _boxer briefs_?” Chris questioned, eyebrow quirked as he climbed out of the car, ball cap on his head and his backpack slung over his shoulder.

Tom’ smile said he should not have asked.

“Distracting them, of course.”

\-----

Chris wasn’t sure how it happened, but within the twenty seconds of their entrance through the automatic door, Tom had a child.

Like…really. He was talking to some woman and holding this small little girl like it fucking belonged to him.

Chris was a bit too far away to see everything that was going on, but at some point, he assumed Tom had put the child down, because the next time he saw her – just a few moments later – she was running up to another man. Chris had to assume this was ‘daddy’ as that was what the child was babbling as she ran.

Strange enough.

But Chris didn’t see how that was supposed to distract someone. Overall, he was still he creep walking through the clothing section with his hair hidden in a hat and his backpack hanging on one shoulder. Of course everyone was staring at him. Tom would have to do a hell of a lot to—

“Claudia?”

That was Tom’s voice.

“Claudia? Sweetie, where are you?”

Oh, good fucking lord.

“Claudia?!”

Now, Chris had only ever seen Tom running at him. He didn’t realize how fast those mile-long legs could carry Tom from one area of the store to another until he whizzed by Chris, heading right up to the customer service desk by the fitting rooms.

Chris could have sword he distinctly heard ‘green V-neck, please’ when Tom ran by.

“Excuse me!” Tom sounded _completely_ distressed, hands wringing before him and everything. “Excuse me, oh my god, oh my god…” Well, Chris could see the Brit had the undivided attention of the sales clerk. “Have you seen a little girl, about this tall –“ he motioned with his hand to about his thigh. “- curly blonde hair, wearing a Hello Kitty dress?”

He had just described the little girl he was holding.

“I…I’m sorry, sir….I haven’t—“

Tom let out a pitiful little sound, hands fisted momentarily in his curls.

Poor…Mark – his nametag read – was really buying this.

“Oh, god, please,” Tom cried. “She ran off while I was talking to her mother and this man had been following us…”

“Sir,” Mark tried to interrupt, but Tom had forced himself to be inconsolable.

“Sir!” Mark tried again, “Please, come with me. We’ll do an all-call…”

Chris didn’t hear the rest. He’d lost the conversation when Mark had led a genuinely crying Tom away, past Chris who was _certain_ he heard, ‘no, the darker green one,’ in passing.

Really, Tom should have an Oscar by now.

But Chris still didn’t understand how that was supposed to get the attention off the shady guy holding two olive V-necks, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a pack of black boxer br—pants. Right.

He had no idea what size Tom wore.

So, Chris calmly made his way over to where the jeans were, even making a show to flip through the cash in his pocket so that anyone still looking at him on the security cameras would hopefully think he was considering how much he had to spend. At the very least, they would see he had money…but not his ID because he’d expertly covered his name with his finger.

It wasn’t a minute later that a voice came over the speakers in the store – momentarily and graciously silencing the instrumental version of ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ – calling out for a ‘Claudia Louise’ to please join her father at the help desk. Directly tacked on the end of that call, was a stated “Code 300.”

Chris had no idea what Tom had done until a yellow-vested security guard went jogging past.

Chris took that opportunity to slip the things into his backpack and follow after the guard, ready to get Tom out of whatever mess he was in.

Which was none, Chris found out, when he made it to the help desk.

Tom was sat on a bench, sobbing – _really_ working those tears – surrounded by two women and a man who had to be the store manager with the get-up he was wearing.

“Sir,” Chris cold hear him saying, “Mr. de Pointe, please. We’ve every security guard looking for your daughter and the cops are on their way.”

And Chris froze up.

Cops.

They had to go.

Tom could finish this performance later.

“Brother!” Chris put on the most concerned face he could, keeping his face down and focused on Tom so perhaps no one would catch his features.

Thank all the gods Tom had seemingly been through a few improv classes, or that could have put one hell of a chink in their plan.

“Oh, Antony!” Tom’s arms were around his neck within mere moments, the tears still spilling from his eyes, concealing Chris’ face in his arms. “Oh, Antony, I can’t find Claudia! Nancy had her and we looked away for two seconds and—“

“Brother…” Chris awkwardly intervened, having no idea what name Tom gave, “They just put her in the car.” Chris was a really shitty liar. “She uh…Nancy and…Aaron…just walked out with her – you know, Nancy’s new boyfriend…” Chris turned half his head to the woman closest, commenting “Nasty divorce…” before turning back to Tom. “And they put her…”

Chris was floundering. Tom had to jump in fast.

“They put her in the car?!” Tom wailed, lifting his head and staring wide-eyed at Chris.

And then they were standing, Tom was ripping the bag from Chris’ shoulders, and Tom was off, muttering something about ‘that cunt’ and how he ‘couldn’t wait until he had full custody,’ leaving Chris very much alone.

‘Don’t worry,” Chris scrambled, offering his most genuine smile, “He’s on medication, and he’s not getting custody. I’m uh….gonna take him back home now.” He started to back up. “Thank you for…taking care of him…”

And then Chris was running after Tom, hoping that shock bought them a few moments.

He was climbing into the truck just as Tom was, the Brit still ranting and raving about that hussy…right up until the door closed, and he was wiping the tears from his eyes, demanding Chris drive.

\----

Tom had a knack for always understanding where cameras were, that was for sure, and Chris realized this as Tom explained all the cameras they had not been caught by. When Chris asked him how he knew this, Tom briefly alluded to a man named ‘Richard’ who let him sleep on a palette while he unloaded some things throughout the store during after-hours.

Chris did not need to know what Tom did with Richard.

Or _to_ Richard.

All in all, Tom had admitted to winging his plan – catching a person on the way out, faking a story about his own daughter being in the hospital, briefly gaining trust and then acting like a mental patient until he had new clothing.

Chris would have liked to know beforehand that they both could have been busted straight away, but he supposed they hadn’t been so he would not complain.

At least they wouldn’t be sleeping in the car tonight.

Tom even congratulated him on his improv. He swore Chris came in like a seasoned champ, and had Tom not known any better, he’d say Chris had acted in school.

Chris hadn’t, of course. He’d played sports. A lot of them for that matter. He had always wanted to do a play, but when his older brother was a sports star, he was expected to be one as well.

No, sheer instinct had saved both himself and Tom, and it was good to know he could _sort of_ think on his feet in a reasonable manner if he needed to.      

“And who the _fuck_ is Claudia?” Chris asked finally, watching Tom sift through the things he’d grabbed.

Tom looked genuinely offended.

“Claudia…” Tom started, as if repeating it would enlighten Chris. “Claudia. Short…blonde hair. Louise…feminine of Louis…”

Chris wasn’t picking up what Tom was laying down.

“Interview with the Vampire!” Tom shouted in his disbelief. How could Chris _not_ get that reference?

“We seriously need to have a movie night…” Tom muttered, arms now crossed over his chest, and Chris couldn’t help but smile over at him.

That sounded like a date.

\-----

This new motel room was probably the worst they had been in thus far.

The walls had mildew, the floorboards were cracked, the windows didn’t close all the way, and Chris was certain the bed wouldn’t hold the both of them…but it was only forty bucks, and it guaranteed them one more night in a room before they got to the border.

They were almost there.

Chris was, honestly, quite excited. A lot of shit had happened to him here and it was really time he left it all behind and started new someplace else. He was already working that past out of him. Well…most of it. Clearly with Tom around, he wasn’t going to be the purest man in the world, but he didn’t see himself needing to kill another man.

He was on _four_ now. Four.

Liam, Aleks, that redneck prick further east and—he could only assume the guy who had tried to hurt his Tom was dead.

Tom still had a nasty bruise on his high cheekbone, but most of the wounding seemed to go to getting kicked in the stomach and being hit in the back of the head. He was holding up alright.

Either way, Chris had killed far more people in his life than he had meant to and…he didn’t see why he had to do that anymore. Tom was behaving himself – not running off anymore as his whore of a fiancé had.

At least Tom had slept with—At least…At least Tom hadn’t slept with Chris’ _brother._

Aleks had. Multiple times by the way Chris found them. They were so fucking familiar with each other, and look where it had gotten them.

Tom’s eyes today, rimmed with those real tears with fake meaning had been looked exactly how Aleks’ had been when he’d begged Chris to let him live, when he’d—

“Oh, sweet lord, I can smell you thinking from here.”

Chris rubbed his face in his hands for a moment, a smiling overtaking his face.

Right. He was here now. Those people were dead, and now he was with this fine, English gentleman, black hair and all.

_Black hair?_

Chris gawked openly at where Tom stood in the bathroom doorway, dark jeans hanging low on sharp hips, torso bare save where the towel was wrapped around his neck, and his once blonde-ginger curls now stark black. He looked completely different.

He looked fucking breathtaking.

He was clean-shaven and all, and just…drying his hair as if he’d not gone through an extreme makeover while Chris had a mini existential crisis.

“Your…hair…” Chris said, stupidly, pointing at Tom as if he didn’t know just which hair he was referring to.

“Yes, it’s uh…dyed,” Tom confirmed, slicking it back with its hand, those cheekbones all the more prominent.

“But, where did you get the dye?” Chris asked, still a bit dumbstruck.

“It was in my bag?” Tom semi-stated, semi-questioned, wondering just why Chris was so alarmed. It was only hair. “You saw it when you went digging, remember?”

Chris did, but...the model on the box had been some chick. He’d not expected Tom to dye his hair mid-trip and look better than any paid model ever would.

Christ, how long had he been in that bathroom?

“Could you please stop staring,” Tom diffused with a chuckle, crossing the room to pull his comb out of his rucksack. “I’m starting to think it looks awful.”

“Not at all!” Chris nearly tripped over the words with how fast he’d had to spit that out. He couldn’t leave Tom thinking…thinking….thinking that he was crazy by the look he was tossing at Chris.

Chris had to compensate.

“So, hey,” He forced out the most ‘bro-like’ voice he could muster. “Do the uh… carpets match the drapes?”

And Tom’s look didn’t change.

If anything, he seemed to give up on Chris for that moment.

“You know they don’t,” Tom said flatly, standing to make his way back into the bathroom…but not before Chris caught him around the waist and pulled him close—

And had a knife put to his throat in the same instance.

He was only trying to be cute.

“Jesus, Tom, I was just going to tell you it looked great. Truly.”

The knife didn’t waver.

“Come on, Tom. Let me compliment you like a normal fucking person.”

A beat passed, and the knife was still at his throat, but a smile quirked Tom’s thin lips, and he muttered out a little: “Continue.”

Motherfucker.

“You’re more ravishing than Humphrey Bogart and Elizabeth Taylor combined,” Chris said smartly, quickly too. He had his Hollywood knowledge. He was sure he’d found a way into Tom’s hear—

“More recent, please,” Tom snapped, the knife pressing more firmly into Chris’ skin.

“More…attractive than Brad Pitt…and Angelina Jo—“

“Don’t you Brangelina me,” Tom cut, giving Chris one more chance.

“Better looking than—“

“Tell me I’m better looking than Aleks,” Tom demanded rather quickly, and Chris couldn’t even be disgusted in himself when he was so quick to respond:

“Of course you are.”

\-----

This time, he had Tom between his legs, lips wrapped around his dick in a way more tantalizing than they had been back in that old bar. When Chris was not looking down at this new dark-haired Tom, marveling in how well he could deep throat a cock when he was in charge of it, he was concentrating on that perfect ass raised in the air, hips swaying as Tom went to work on Chris.

He’d said it was the least he could do for such a compliment as the one Chris had paid him.

Chris had actually gotten Tom to beg before the fucking even started, the poor Brit saying he honestly couldn’t take another brutal fuck today. He asked for just one night where he would be able to sleep and later sit comfortably in the car.

So, Chris forced his hands in that pretty hair and forced Tom’s mouth on him instead.

He came sometime after, grunting as he spilled into Tom’s mouth, holding that now inky head down until he was sure Tom had swallowed all of his release.

When he was thoroughly satisfied, he allowed Tom to lift up, even moving to massage his worked jaw, thumb lightly over the bruise on his cheekbone.

Chris had never seen him look lovelier.

He almost felt bad for being so forceful.

Tom fell asleep shortly after, claiming the false crying from earlier as well as the beating he’d received in that last motel had given him a headache he just needed to sleep off. He’d offered only to stay awake if Chris wanted him to put the excess dye in his air to maybe actually hide his identity for once.

Chris declined.

He was rather attached to his hair.

So Tom just rolled his eyes and situated himself on the bed, eyes closed, and trying to wind down.

“We’ll be at the border soon,” Chris told him, brushing back his hair only a few times before Tom curled in closer to himself, saying the touch was annoying and making his headache worse.

“Just a couple of days,” Chris added, and Tom hummed in what little excitement he could muster.

“What will you—“

“Chris, please,” Tom grunted, “I’m tired, I’ve a headache, and my jaw hurts.” He peeked an eye open and oh, did they look green in this light with that hair. “Tomorrow, okay?”

And Chris relented.

“Tomorrow,” he confirmed, patting Tom’s freckled shoulder.

“Good night, Chris,” Tom yawned, turning his back to Chris and curling in the starchy blankets. It was all too obvious he did not fear Chris anymore, but Chris was only so bothered by that. Tom was still around. He wasn’t running. If Chris felt he needed to instill fear in Tom, he would in a heartbeat, but he saw no need for it now.

He hoped it stayed that way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hey there, guys! I am so, so, sorry for the wait, but holy fuck, writing. I missed the holidays, but please, accept this as an early (or belated) birthday gift!
> 
> Really, truly, though, thank you all so much for the continued kudos and comments. An email I got this morning was the one that made me nut up and get this out so thank you, thank you, thank you! Please enjoy.

The acrid smell of smoke affronted Chris’ nostrils first thing the next morning.

They were staying in a non-smoking room.

The static of the television, followed by the monotonous mumbling of the weather informed Chris that there would be severe thunderstorms with tornado warnings throughout the entirety of the day. It was nothing he wanted to drive in, but it was not as i—

Their motel room did not have a TV when they entered it last night.

“Tom, where did you—“

“Shh.”

They were a married couple already.

With all of his senses being so disrespected by the environment he had actively placed himself in, it was lovely to at least have the sight of Tom’s bare backside to make his morning a tad brighter.

Tom seemed to have been up for quite a while now. He had an ashtray – in a non-smoking room – next to him filled with the butts of around seven cigarettes. He was perched on the edge of the bed, one knee brought up with his chin rested atop it, staring at the television. Despite his love for film, Chris never pinned Tom as someone who watched television. He just seemed too…active.

Tom’s new dark hair was a mess, the relaxed curls trying to spring to life beneath a new layer of dye, but having no luck and therefore just flipping about.

 Bed head. He had officially seen a psychopath with bed head.

And it was more adorable than Aleks’.

The thunder had started to roll outside the window already, but Chris couldn’t force himself to get up and ruin this moment. Tom was clearly intent on his television watching – perhaps for the normality – and Chris had this breathtaking image of Tom’s pale back marred with the lines of their fight and the bruises from where Tom had had that falling out with that hick.

Chris had saved Tom from that – _saved –_ and he could count those as good markings because of that.

“How are you feeling today?” Chris asked, trying his luck at speaking with Tom again.

“I’m fine.” It was better than nothing. “You?”

Oh god, they were having a conversation. He’d put Chris above the television.

“I’m al—“

“Shh!”

Okay, now Chris was getting a tad cranky about it. What was so important about the goddamn weath—

“ _Chris Hemsworth, formerly an agent of the S.H.I.E.L.D department of protection, has been moving across country since the final week of last month. He was last seen headed west along route 66. The last claimed sighting of Chris Hemsworth was in Sedona, AZ.”_

The woman on the television went on to list the charges but Chris had stopped listening.

It wasn’t shock, it wasn’t fear, it wasn’t…it wasn’t anything like that. It was relief. _Relief._ That last witness, whoever they were, they were an absolute godsend. Arizona? They weren’t even going _through_ Arizona. They were travelling through the border in New Mexico. They weren’t in the clear, but hell, the cops had a false lead in Arizona.  It was the best news Chris could hear.

“Tom, we’re--”

“ _Shh! Christ!”_

Tom clearly wasn’t done with this story despite knowing very well how it ended. Chris remained unfound, they’d left a short trail of bodies, and they’d go free. The media would probably create an impressive story about the ‘unsolved murders,’ and Chris and Tom would watch it from their new home. Really, there was no need to continue to watch anymore.

“Tom, come on, I’m hungry…”

“CHRIS!”

“ _—the convicted murderer’s partner has allegedly been named as Thomas Hiddleson—“_

_“_ Hiddleson?! There’s a fucking ‘t,’ you twats!”

Chris had a feeling Tom was one of those guys that had a problem with typos.

“ _Hiddleson was tried and acquitted for the murder of Kenneth C. Branagh, acclaimed director and actor of the United Kingdom—“_

“Isn’t he the guy that played Henry V?”

Tom had _never_ glared at Chris as nastily as he did then. He went through the effort to turn his whole body and everything. His nostrils were even flared. Tom was having none of it.

_“It is unknown what Hiddleson’s involvement may be with Hemsworth, but experts say that Hiddleson is – most likely- a hostage.”_

The television was shut off, and a silence only punctuated by the still quiet rumbling of thunder filled the room.

Chris wasn’t sure how he was feeling. He was still elated mostly. All in all, the cops were off their trail and they were free for at least a day. Chris didn’t think it would hurt them to weather this storm and stay an extra night. They could home free before dinner tomorrow if they left in the morning. There was no need to die in a stupid car wreck when they had made it this far. Besides, he had to adhere to Mark’s schedule. Mark: the one friend he still had in his department, in all of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“So,” Chris began, “I was thinking we could maybe—“

“They think I’m a hostage.”

“What?”

“They think,” Tom began again, turning to face Chris finally in full, “that _I_ am your _hostage_.”

Chris took a moment more in the silence, eyebrows raised as if there was more coming at him. He didn’t see much of a problem in what the media thought of them. If anything, their claim he was in Arizona was helping them out. It put them completely off his track…so why the fuck was Tom worried about being seen as a hostage?

“Is that….is that a bad thing?” Chris finally asked, treading softly

“It’s awful,” Tom replied simply enough, standing to rifle through his bag and pull out a new pair of the boxers they’d stolen just a day ago. He pulled them on over his slight hips before continuing.

“It’s….absolutely ridiculous really.” Now, he was headed back to the bed, flopping down onto the brick mattress and making the frame creak beneath the force. “Why on _earth_ wouldn’t they see this as a joint thing?”

Oh, so it was a _joint_ thing.

“Why wouldn’t they see this is _clearly_ a partnership?”

Oh, so it was a _partnership?_

“Why wouldn’t they clearly see that there is no coincidence to this? Really? An acquitted murderer and a new murderer travelling together? And they think I’m a hostage?”

He wasn’t a golden-retriever anymore. He wasn’t that pathetic little boy that had hailed straight out of University to accidently fuck his way into the business and then fail at that. He was Tom Hiddleston, with a goddamn, fucking ‘t.’ He had _acted_ his way out of a goddamn trial and now…now he was a hostage.

Great.

“I’m aggravated. Let’s go.”

“Tom.”

Chris was quite tired of the Brit’s ranting at this point. Okay, so he was a hostage to the media. Big deal. Did he not just realize that he had deemed this a _partnership?_ That was a big deal. It was time to focus on… not that.

“Look, mate,” Chris started again, placing his hand on Tom’s forehead and pushing his unruly curls back. “I know you’re not a hostage okay?” And just to make Tom feel a tad better: “You killed Henry V. If the world knew that, they’d know you’re not hostage material.”

And Chris finally got a laugh out of Tom with that.

“I did not kill Henry V…” Tom chuckled, his mood seeming to diffuse with just the reminder of his murder. “I simply rewrote him.”

“So, _you’re_ Henry V now?” Chris asked with a slight smile, looking down at the smile that was gracing Tom’s pale lips. That dark hair made _all_ of him look pretty pale, actually, but it was really quite gorgeous.

“Not yet, I’m not,” Tom responded softly. “I’ve got to grow out of Hal first.”

\-----

Chris convinced Tom to stay one more night. Really, it wasn’t all that difficult. The rain had started to come down in sheets and the thunder was loud enough to shake their motel room. They’d be in for the night, only going out to renew their room for the evening.

Chris and Tom made their way to the office beneath the little awning set out over the walkway. At only ten in the morning, it was too dark to even see Chris’ truck out in front of the room, their vision obstructed by the rain, but beneath the awning, it was still quite dry save for a few holes in there, and visibility was enough that Chris could make out the “Missing Television” sign that hung in the office window.

Well, Chris had an idea as to where Tom had gotten the TV from.

It was safe to say, then, that the young girl at the counter probably hadn’t seen the news report today, nor heard it with the amount of Sheryl Crow blaring out of her…Walkman.

Tom had decided to stand outside beneath the awning to smoke a cigarette. He stood within view of the interior office, though, for he did so know how Chris feared him running off.

“Hi there,” Chris greeted cheerily enough, his beanie pulled down over his head since the newscast had shown him with it loosed from a ponytail and down around his head.  The office was relatively small, but it had a few little ‘features.’ There was a wall of VHS tapes he supposed one could ‘rent,’ and then another wall adjacent filled with normal convenience store things like Tylenol, gum and….lube. How charming.

“I’m staying in room 27. I was just coming in to rent it for another nigh—“

“Tell him to stop doing that.”

The little girl – probably seventeen or so in age – had a surprising drawl Chris could not pinpoint…but he mostly caught the fact that this must be a family business, for she certainly was not hired for her excellence in customer service.

“I’m sorry, what?” Chris questioned, confusion written about his face.

“Tell your boyfriend to stop putting his cigarette out on the side of the building.”

With that said, Chris turned around to see Tom doing just as the girl had mentioned, tapping his cigarette against the brick and, presumably, making a picture on the wall with his ashes. He had done the same thing in the ash tray earlier.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. Give me one…”

Chris took a few steps backwards and leaned his head out of the door.

“Tom,” he whispered by way of gaining the Brit’s attention, “Stop that. You’re pissing off the child.”

He closed the door just as Tom began to gape in the work of forming out a retort, walking back up to the desk.

“As I was saying,” he started again, but sure enough, the omnipotent teen had more to say.

“Does he taste like an ashtray when you kiss him?” She asked. “He looks like he tastes like an ashtray.”

It briefly hit Chris that he honestly didn’t know what Tom tasted like when he kissed him. Chris had never kissed him before. They didn’t exactly have that type of relationship where kissing was a thing.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, he does,” Chris dismissed, wanting to move this along. “So, as I was saying, I wanted to renew room 27 for the evening—“

“Need your card,” the girl responded, hand held out for the plastic.

“I paid with cash last night,” Chris retorted. Giving up his card _really_ wasn’t an option. Not only did it have his name on it, but _it had his name on it._ They’d be tracked in a second and thus have their whole night and lives ruined. “Surely, I can—“

“My brother has a nasty habit of under the table dealings here,” the girl terminated Chris’ comment with a wave of her hand. “I need your card, sir, or you’ll be shit outta luck on a room tonight.”

“I don’t _have_ a card,” Chris lied. “Just…okay, okay, how about this?” Chris pulled out his wallet and started counting through the money he had left. Four hundred dollars. That was all he had to renew their room, get gas, and start off his life with Tom over the border. Four hundred. Fuck.

“The room is forty dollars,” Chris started, gathering a few bills in his hand. “Let me pay in cash, I’ll give you a hundred dollar bill, and you can keep the sixty for yourself.” Chris had a suspicion she would follow the footsteps of her brother and take the full hundred, but it didn’t matter to him anymore. He’d offered up a hundred dollars so that he and Tom didn’t have to risk their lives in a stupid fucking storm. He’d offered a hundred dollars to give them _one_ day of normality.

And the girl took it.

“Enjoy your stay,” the girl smiled, now in possession of the money. “And tell your boyfriend it’s a non-smoking room.”

Chris smiled then, replying with a simple, “I will.”

He liked the sound of calling Tom his boyfriend.

\-----

Tom had been kind enough to brave the storm for a solid twenty seconds to run out to the truck and grab their bag of snacks. Real meals would have to be something they celebrated with when they arrived at their destination. There was no time or money for it now.

When Tom came back, his t-shirt was soaked, and just to keep him from complaining, Chris took a step out from beneath the awning, allowing himself to be soaked so that they were even.

Tom punched him for ‘trying to be charming.’

The television reception was out, so Chris and Tom sat across from each other on the chilled floorboards, finally sharing that Ho-Ho Tom had bought for Chris. Their five-star course also consisted of another bag of Tom’s favourite salt and vinegar chips, a flat orange soda, and a Reece’s cup.

“So,” Chris egged Tom on, trying to get him to stop eating and continue the story he had begun nearly a half hour ago. Tom had started telling the story of his trip up to this point, a backlog of all the men he’d run into along the way. Usually, yes, Chris would have been irate at such an extensive list, but he had taken great pride in hearing Tom punish these men in ways Chris could not. He was really listening in just to hear what happened to them. He was proud of his ‘boyfriend’ for taking care of himself.

If Chris had counted correctly, the man he’d come to partner up with had killed twelve men on his journey. _Twelve,_ and Chris wasn’t the least bit surprised anymore.

“Soooo,” Tom continued after he’d cleaned the chocolate off his teeth. “I’m on Andy? Yes, right.” Just for the suspense, Tom took another bite of his Ho-Ho, another drag of his cigarette and went on. “So Andy got me from Delaware to Virginia in his categorical pedophile van. We _slept_ \- nothing more – in that van until that last night.” Oh, Chris could feel his favourite part coming. “That was the night he decided we were going to play a game with ropes, a chain, and no safe word.”

Tom had a track record of picking out the weird ones.

“I won.”

They toasted with victory with a swig of the flat orange juice.

“Turns out it’s very hard to know when to stop the asphyxiation if you don’t mandate a safe word.”

Moral of the story: Always have a safe word.

“You are fascinating,” Chris breathed with a snicker, finishing off his snack cake just as he leant up from where he had been resting back on his arms.

“Hardly,” Tom diffused, taking another drag of his cigarette before snubbing it out in the ashtray. “I’m merely…” He paused, took a moment for a laugh. “Okay, yes,” he relented, “I _am_ fascinat—“

Tom had _killed_ men. He had properly gouged a man’s eyes out and stepped on one by accident. Tom had, more terrifyingly in his opinion, been rejected by a piece of mid-western scum and nearly pummeled to death afterwards, but nothing had ever shocked him like the feeling of Chris’ lips on his.

He’d not even registered the kiss before Chris pulled away, staring at Tom as if he was a damned museum exhibit. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Chris was…concerned. He was concerned he had crossed a line. Perhaps they really were just partners in crime turned fuck buddies. Hell, they hadn’t even had fully consensual sex yet. Last night had been the closest thing and even then, Chris had had to hold Tom’s head down from time to time. They weren’t exactly intimate in a way that warranted kissing but…

“Look,” Chris started quietly, hands raised in surrender. He was expecting the knife. “I shouldn’t have done that….I’m sorry.” Still, silence on Tom’s end. “It’s just….this…this whole running thing…..it will be finished tomorrow and—“

“What?” Tom looked equally as shocked as he had been with the kiss.

“We’re practically _at_ the crossing,” Chris explained, his eyes travelling to Tom’s lips despite how wrong he felt for kissing him in the first place. “We’ll be in Mexico by dinner time tomorrow and if we are going to start—“

Tom placed his fingers to Chris’ lips while something – some thought – seemed to tick behind his eyelids.

It was really very difficult to finish a sentence in this relationship.

“Tomorrow?” He asked, eyes wide and trained on Chris.

“Tomorrow.” Chris confirmed, a tad sheepishly.

He didn’t have a moment more to fret about what might be going through Tom’s mind, though. Just as soon as he had confirmed their date of freedom, Tom’s lips had found Chris’ and they were splayed out on the floor, kissing hungrily.

Tom did, indeed, taste like an ashtray.

At some point or another, Chris pushed them both up off the ground and maneuvered Tom’s legs around his waist until they could both fall to the bed, the kiss only breaking once for Tom to remind Chris not to drop him. He had a knife in his pocket.

Chris’ last make out session had been with his fiancé back in their apartment. Admittedly, it had been far before _the_ incident – Chris’ work schedule had gotten a little out of control. He supposed, in retrospect, he could have seen the distance they already had then, but Aleks was Chris’ fiancé. He wanted to hope that they still had _something_ with their wedding just a few months away.

Tom was already a better kisser than Aleks anyway.

The kissing branched into biting – mostly on Tom’s part – and it did not stop until Chris’ fingertips found their way beneath the hem of Tom’s shirt. He was actually surprised to feel the muscles beneath Tom’s skin flutter at the touch, surprised to hear a demure little sound leave Tom’s lips.

Even more so, he was surprised to hear Tom tell him to “Stop.”

And he listened.

Before he could ask why he had to stop, though, Tom was already explaining.

“We don’t have any lube,” he breathed, his lips and cheeks red with the heightened flow of blood beneath his skin. “We used the last of it…”

_FUCK!_

“The office…” Chris panted, taking the time to kiss Tom while the thought processed in his head. “They had lube….I’ll go get some…”

Fuck their money situation. Chris would spend another hundred on the bottle of lube alone if it meant this was really happening.

“I’ll go,” Tom replied once Chris had broken the kiss to move.  “You’re the one on the news right now, I just dyed my hair.” He kissed Chris again. “It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Tom had a point. He’d be the harder one to spot. So, Chris let him up after a kiss or two more, watching Tom adjust himself before he was heading out the door and—

“Tom,” Chris called, reaching into his back pocket. “It’s too small a place to steal it. Just use the cash.”

He tossed the wallet to Tom who caught it before nodding and heading out the door. Chris could have sworn he saw Tom start running before the door even closed.

\-----

The trail of clothing started _at_ the door. Once Tom had returned – in record time, Chris might add – he had his shirt off before the door even closed. Chris’ wallet was lost in the pile of Tom’s pants as he made his way to the bed, but sure enough, he had a little bottle of lube which was now perched on the dresser.

The storm outside had gotten worse, yet Chris was lucky enough to still be able to hear Tom over the raucous noise. He made it a point to be certain he could.

This was the first time Chris had heard Tom in genuine, undeniable pleasure. He had to admit that he was a fan of that first night with Tom – hearing him gasp for air as if choking and unable to make words through Chris’ pounding – but this was just as wonderful. The strong-willed, not-hostage even squeaked sometimes when Chris’ warm tongue passed the pucker of his entrance. Chris had taken a tally of three times that had happened now. He was going for a fourth.

Every so often, much to Chris’ dismay, Tom would bury his face into the pillow beneath him to save himself a bit of dignity. It was those times that Chris would wriggle his tongue into Tom, make him gasp or groan so loudly that he had turn his head or he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Where Chris held Tom’s thighs open, he could feel the muscles quiver and tense depending on just what Chris was doing at the time. They relaxed only when Chris reached around to wrap his hand around Tom’s cock in hopes of relieving a little pressure. They tensed when he let go and thrust his tongue into Tom’s warmth as deep as he could go. They shook when he moved his tongue around.

This time, Chris was taking care of Tom. All of their fucking had been based in his pleasure alone, and if Tom’s track record of murder’s had any say in the matter, it was pretty clear that was not something Tom liked.

After Tom had been properly stretched and prepped properly, Chris finally found his momentary relief when he sheathed himself in the warm body below him. They had the lube, but still no condom. Luckily, Tom had relented on the idea of protection long ago, but he made it very clear that if Chris had not at least asked, he would have woken up with a knife in his groin.

Really, Tom was a romantic.

Tom’s grip on the bedpost was not nearly enough to turn his knuckles white just yet, but Chris was pretty certain it would be soon enough if Tom kept urging him on with the ‘please, Chris, harder’s. His dark hair stuck to his forehead here and there, but Chris always took the time to smooth it back out of the Brit’s eyes. The bruise on his cheekbone only shone when lightning lit their room, but Chris never minded that. His eyes always went straight to that mark he’d made on their first night. It was faded now, of course, but in the proper brightness, the pink was still there, right where Chris had sucked his first mark into Tom’s neck.

It was only the last few moments that Chris assented to Tom’s request and picked up his pace and his power. Tom’s mewls and whines turned to little ‘uh’s that raised in pitch until finally, they were nothing but a breathy gasp as he came, warm and slick between their bodies. Chris freed Tom’s cock after he was certain Tom had had enough and, just a few thrusts later, he came deep into Tom. The only thing that had stopped him from pulling out in courtesy was the heel jammed into his backside the moment he tried.

Chris did his best to shush and calm Tom when it all was over. He was breathing a bit too heavily for Chris’ comfort, but Chris supposed Tom had been smoking for a long time. It made sense that he was just a bit out of breath and, if nothing else, Chris could enjoy Tom’s tongue kept peeking out to moisten his lips every time they got too dry from their panting.

He even saw Tom crack a smile every so often as he did so.

When Tom had quieted down, Chris pulled out of him, eliciting one last little gasp from the Brit before they both were tangled in each other, verging on sleep.

“Get some sleep,” Chris urged Tom, pressing his lips to Tom’ chilled forehead. “We’ve got to be up early tomorrow if we want to make it by dinner time.”

“Enchiladas…” Tom replied sleepily, a smile crossing his features once more.

“Better than a Ho-Ho,” Chris teased quietly, but Tom seemed to have fallen asleep before he could even hear the joke.

As much as it pained him to do so, Chris had to unwind his arms from around Tom just for enough time to reach back and set the yellowed plastic alarm clock. At 7:00am, they would be Mexico-bound, ready to start an – ideally - murder free life. They’d see when the time came.

Chris did not fall asleep until he was rightfully wound up with Tom again, the Brit’s head tucked into his chest and his gentle breath fanning out across Chris’ collarbone.

But it was not the beeping of the old alarm that woke Chris and Tom the next morning.

It was the sound of a sirens and a voice on a megaphone demanding “Mr. Hemsworth” to come out with his hands up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now that you are here, I would first like to thank you for making it this far and then, I would like to bring attention to the change in chapter numbers. The next one will be the last one. WHO'S READY?!
> 
> I'm not.


	8. Final

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. My baby's end. Thank you all for sticking around. I am so sorry for making you wait so long. Its been a long run, and I hope to write more now that I have finally gotten this out. It was hard to say goodbye to it BUT I am thinking about printing it into a book and collaborating with a few artists. Let me know if you would be interested. You guys are the best!

One peek out the dusty-curtained window, and Chris’ heart bottomed out. They were absolutely surrounded for what he could see. He counted no less than thirteen cop cars, no less than twenty officers, all with guns raised and pointed at the motel room he currently resided in.

In short, he panicked.

“What the _fuck_ did you _do_?!”

Tom had not even fully awakened yet before Chris began to shake him, his hands white-knuckled on Tom’s bony shoulders. Tom attempted in his stupor to push Chris off, but nothing really settled until once more, he heard the voice of the man outside, projected but muddled with electronic feedback.

“Christopher Hemsworth!” The man announced once more, “We know you are in there! Come out with your hands up and surrender or we will be forced to come to you!”

Tom’s eyes went wide, but his form of panic was cut off when Chris started to shake him again.

“What did you do?!” Chris demanded again, shaking Tom’s frail body, tossing his dark hair in front of his wide eyes.

“I didn’t do anything!” Tom shouted back, his voice cracking in his fright.

“Liar!” Chris knew Tom. He knew he was an actor, knew he was a manipulative little bastard, knew he was….he was crying.

“I didn’t do anything!” Tom cried out, and Chris saw the water banking on his dark lashes, saw the trembling, saw the fear.

Tom was panicking just as much as he was.

And Chris assumed he should be. He’d made a point the night before. An ex-murderer (supposedly innocent) with a new murderer, running around the country together. The country was only so stupid. Tom wasn’t getting out of this as a hostage. They would find him out this time.

They were both fucked.

Chris let Tom go and crossed to the window again, but he didn’t look out. He’d worked for S.H.I.E.L.D for years. He could get out of this. Tom was small – if he could fit through that bar’s bathroom window, he could fit through a ventilation shaft. They could go on the roof, wait it out, find a stray cop cartoon-style and steal his uniform, walk right through the crowd unnoticed. Chris didn’t know! Anything was better than being caught. They still had a chance right now.

Right?

“Fuck!’ Chris yelled, tearing at his hair and tensing as he spun around, looking about the room desperately. His eyes scanned past Tom only once, but nothing had changed. He sat, perched on the bed, bed sheet clutched around his naked body—

“Get dressed,” Chris finally breathed, rushing to pull on a pair of boxers, nearly missteping into his pant legs. “Get up, get fucking dressed, and we will figure this out. We’re….we’re what? An hour – two, tops – away from…where we need to be.” Chris was gathering what he could – clothes, food, lube, his gun – “We can get out of this. We can. I swear.” They could get out of this and make it to their new home, start their new life. They were so close. So fucking close.

“Get dressed!” Chris yelled at Tom again, turning once more to him in a frenzy—

\--to see him laughing.

“Tom—“

“I am so sorry.” Tom wiped the tears from his eyes, but his thin lips were still pulled into a smile. “I just…I thought you would be more…put together.”

Tom moved off the bed, still holding the sheet around him as he stepped towards Chris. Chris took an instinctive step back, his head shaking ever so slightly.

This couldn’t be happening.

“Give me the bag, Chris.” Tom extended his arm, but Chris pulled back again.

Tom had fooled him again. Tom was…he’d done something. He’d done this. After everything, after last night…

“You’re a cop…” Chris muttered, disbelieving. “You’re a fucking—“

“I am not a fucking cop,” Tom sighed, dropping his hands to his sides. “Really, darling? A cop? Have you not followed all I have done during our time together?”

Okay, so Chris had to admit that it was a stupid assumption, but…if not a cop, then what the fuck was happening?

“So you’re turning me in?” Chris asked, taking another step back, his hand fishing in his bag for the gun he had just dropped in it.

Tom clicked his tongue and gave Chris those fucking puppy eyes from before. The same ones he had given in that bar what seemed like ages ago.

“I’m turning _us_ in, Chris,” Tom clarified, finally stilling, his hip cocked beneath the cheap fabric of the sheet. “Running has been great, but as it turns out, I can’t make a living out of it. I can’t…get off on it.” Tom moved to light up a cigarette he’d grabbed from the nightstand, letting it hang between his lips as he took a drag. Chris never took his eyes off the Brit.

“You see,” Tom started again on his exhale. “You don’t get a lot of acting gigs when you’ve been accused of murder.” He flicked his ashes onto the matted carpet beneath his feet. “So, I thought, why not go for my comeback? Round two in the courtrooms, see if I can get out of it again. It’s like a play, just more…Tarantino than Shakespea—oh,” Tom raised his finger to keep Chris silent as he took another drag. “Okay, so it’s a bit Merchant of Venice, but anyway.”

Tom waved a bit of smoke out of his face, clearing his vision before he set eyes on Chris again. The Aussie looked devastated. It was quite sad, really. Tom wasn’t completely cold, after all. Empathy was what had gotten him in this predicament in the first place.

“Chris, please,” Tom’s entire attitude went from sinister to innocent in a moment, his eyes wide again and his hands moving to accentuate what came from his light voice. “This is my second coming – this is my evolution. I am good at this.” He seemed genuinely pleased to say that. “I am tremendous at this.”

He was pleased to say that.

“Your evolution?” Chris snorted, his breathing still laboured, but less like that of a predator, and more like that of the prey.

There was another announcement from outside. They had five minutes.

“Your evolution from what to what?” Chris asked, his hand closing around the gun within, the steel cold in his grip. “Sociopath to psychopath?”

Tom looked hurt.

“No…” He muttered, eyes on Chris’. “From Hal to Henry.”

Okay, yes. Tom was completely insane.

“And where do I fit into this play of yours?” Chris questioned, not letting his gaze leave Tom’s now. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. His life had been pretty full of surprises, pretty full of twists and turns, but Tom…Tom was a good thing. He didn’t know if he loved him, but he was fond of him. They could have had something, and now….Chris had a gun in his hand, hidden in a bag, and Tom was explaining this betrayal as if it were a stupid act in some play.

“Where the _fuck_ _do I fit in_ this play?” Chris demanded, this time louder, his grip on the gun tightening.

Tom blinked a few times as he assessed Chris’ question. Did he truly not know?

“You were my Falstaff,” Tom breathed, as if it was the simplest idea in the world. “You were my kind Jack Falstaff, my true Jack Falstaf, my valiant Jack Falstaff.”

Chris realised that was the closest thing to fondness he would ever get from Tom. His whole body said it. His arms were limp, his eyes were wide, his features soft. Those fucking freckles stood out on his pale cheeks, and Tom was, for now, being so sincere.

But it wasn’t the fondness Chris had been led to believe.

It shattered what Aleks had left of Chris’ heart, but he supposed he’d suspected that. He was Falstaff, after all. He should have seen this coming all along. He should have seen his prince using him in his rise to fame.

What he did see now was that Tom was fucking insane. It clicked just as walking in on his brother with his fiancé had. Tom killed and used to live out some fucking script he’d never been cast in. Chris had killed for love – for two men, now, but in different ways. Tom had upped his body count and Chris would have killed so many more to please him. And this is what it had gotten him. He should have learned from his first time.

Well, Tom could have his script. Tom could have his fucking comeback.

Chris pulled his gun, but no faster than Tom could throw his knife directly into Chris’ arm. It had not occurred to him that Tom had grabbed his weapon of choice while he was putting out his cigarette…on the bureau.

The bite of the knife going into his flesh shocked Chris into, understandably, dropping the gun. Tom would have been pleased, if Chris was not so quick to just pull the pearled blade out of his arm and toss it aside. He’d been shot before. This was nothing.

“You tried to shoot me!” Tom yelled in his defense, affronted, poised and watching Chris’ eyes dart towards the gun. It was right between them, and Chris knew Tom was fast. They were both frozen, waiting for the opportunity.

“You stabbed me,” Chris muttered through gritted teeth in return. Blood flowed from the wound on his upper arm, but it only seemed to inconvenience him in waves.

“Chris, you are taking this far too—“ Tom flinched as if to grab the gun and Chris mirrored his movements. A quick jerk, but no one had gone for the gun yet. “—Seriously.” Another jerk, but no one went for it. “I mean, yeah,” Tom tacked on, “I swiped your fucking card for lube, but we had a great time, yeah? I enjoyed it, at least. Honestly.”

They did it again, the both of them, in sync.

“Come on, Chris,” Tom tried again. “You played your roles, too! Remember?” Chris didn’t. “Jed, heading to Washington?” The lie he had told Tom at the bar. “We were going to go together, remember?”

“Fuck you,” Chris snarled, his eyes flicking once more to the gun.

“Chris, please,” Chris did not even have to look at Tom to see what he was doing with his fucking face. “You’re acting as if not a bit of me was genuine.”

“No,” Chris amended, “I am acting as if you fucking used me to lift yourself to the goddamn top. You fucked with me both mentally and physically. I am acting as if you are the dirty fucker that I met in that bar who blew me to get a ride, blew another man to get a snack, and then acted like you fucking fell for me last night to get us busted.”

Tom had to admit, Chris had a point there. How inconvenient. Even if it was not all true, Tom would not admit where Chris went wrong. Unlike Chris, he had learned his lesson with relationships.

“We all care in different ways,” Tom shrugged so nonchalantly that Chris could have just leapt across and throttled him right there.

He genuinely thought that justified his actions.

A long moment passed that was probably only ten seconds, interrupted by another announcement put them at a three minute countdown.

Chris took in a breath and eyed the man across from him.

Yes, a part of him loved this man. A part of him adored this Brit and he would have given anything to start a new life with him. A part of him dreamed they could have gone to Washington, gone to Mexico, to Canada, lived a life of mundane, day-to-day work.

But Chris had thought the same about Aleks.

Chris was just about to make his move when he heard Tom speak – no, sing ¬– quietly and under his breath, but clearly meant for Chris to hear.

“ _Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, they both_ ….” Tom murmured, his body taking a stronger stance beneath the sheet. “ _Oh yes, they both, oh yes, they both reached for_ …”

“Don’t,” Chris warned, but it was no use.

“ _The gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, oh yes, they both reached for the gun, for the—_ “ Another jerk of movement from the both, but as the song suggested, they both reached, but no one had caught it yet.

“ _Gun_.”

Chris had it. This crazy fucker had used him. Used him to fucking make a goddamn name for himself. This fucking little twat of a Brit had lied to him, manipulated him…and Chris wasn’t letting this happen again. Not with Tom. Not again.

Chris dove first, Tom just a split second behind, but even that fraction of a blink cost Tom dearly. Before he could even get a hold on the metal, Chris had clocked him hard across the face, blood splattering from his nose that Chris was in no way surprised ended up still looking straight. It fucking would.

With a strong grip to Tom’s dark hair, Chris lifted the scrabbling little Brit from the floor. With one arm, Tom clutched at his sheet as if dignity would help him through this. With the other, Tom scratched at Chris, twisted in his grip..

Tom struggled and screamed and hissed as Chris dragged him around the room, giving the perimeter a final once over. When he neared it, he kicked Tom’s knife aside, making his way to the front door.

“The fuck?!” Tom screeched, clawing where he could at Chris, grinding his feet into the floor in hopes of stopping, but only tripping when Chris yanked his hair so hard he fell to the pain again. Blood from his nose was getting into his mouth, so he spit that at Chris once too.

“Put me down, you fucking twat!”

But Chris had no interest in doing so.

“Oh, do calm down, darling,” Chris shot through gritted teeth. “I’m only trying to make sure everyone remembers you.”

It was then that Tom’s attitude changed. He paused, but only for a second in his struggling. Chris was nearing the front door – the front fucking door that led out fucking side – and Tom didn’t have to put two and two together anymore.

His curses turned to begging; his hisses to pleads. He started struggling anew, but this time with desperation. But Chris would not misread this fucker again. He’d fallen for this too many times now. He would not be swayed by Tom’s sweet words or bribes. He would not fall for him again.

Yes. Chris had misread Tom a thousand times now, but there was still one thing he knew for certain:

Tom was still terrified of dying.

The door to the motel swung open on Chris’s accord and the bright sunlight only briefly blinded him as he stepped onto the warm asphalt of the lot outside. He made a quick comeback from his downfall, though, and with one command, the policemen’s guns were raised.

Chris had a hostage after all.

Tom seized tighter to the sheet around him as Chris dragged him across the concrete. He stumbled, tried to stand again. His knees caught on pavement, and before he could catch his footing, Chris tossed him hard to the ground. When Tom lifted his head again, he felt the cool touch of the gun’s barrel at his temple.

This time when he cried, his tears were real.

When Tom had fooled Chris before, his tears were always dignified, silent. Now, his sobs and broken pleas were all that could be heard in the crowded parking lot, all eyes on him and Chris…but that was just what he wanted wasn’t it?

“Chris—“ he begged, “Ple—“

“Listen up,” Chris announced, his voice booming and echoing through the lot, bouncing off the walls of the motel. “This is Thomas William Hiddleston. Actor. He is from London, and you know him from the murder of Kenneth….” Chris paused and, with a cock of the gun, he asked Tom, “What was his name, again?”

“Br-Branagh,” Tom sobbed, only for it to be made worse when Chris pushed the gun harder against his temple.

“Branagh,” Chris amended, but there was no smile. No glee. He took no joy in what he was doing now. He knew this was what he had to do – it was a burden – but he also needed to give Tom what he wanted.

“He lied his way through the trial,” Chris informed everyone, including the media that was hidden around the perimeter. “Didn’t you?” There was even a helicopter now to see Tom nod. “He killed Mr. Branagh along with countless others on our little trip. He is not my hostage, he is my accomplice. Aren’t you?”

No sounds followed that but another round of Tom’s sniveling; his pathetic confirmation he was as Chris said.

He’d been completely stripped of all Chris had seen from him to this point. The manic glee had dissipated, the film references out the window. His charm had collapsed, and Chris saw Tom as he truly was for the first time. He saw that kid who’d been manipulated, lied to and used, just as Tom had learned to do to others. All his wit had turned to quiet ‘No’s, his soft hands scraped by his fall to the ground.

His entire character had disappeared.

But that meant nothing now. He’d wronged Chris in a way he could not take. Just because Tom was finally paying for all he’d done, just because his script had collapsed and he’d lost his way, his motives, his character, Chris would not stop this.

The show must go on.

“He has gouged a man’s eyes out, he strangled a man in Virginia, and murdered at least ten more along the way.” Chris had been so impressed with that twelve.

“Not only has he killed, but he has stolen, he has lied, and he has prostituted himself for rides, for food, and for this moment.” Chris took another sweep around the crowd, made sure the vultures had heard all of it. “Thomas Hiddleston is not harmless, and you will be cleaning up his mess for years. He’s notorious, infamous, and--“

Chris paused, but only for a minute. He scanned the crowd, the officers with their guns raised and all of their eyes either on him or on the hunched Brit with the tears streaming down his face, the silent prayers on his lips. He looked so innocent.

Everyone would remember this.

Everyone would remember him.

“--And my final victim.”

Tom didn’t get a word in. He didn’t even get a breath. Before he could turn those puppy eyes to Chris, before Chris could take the time to admire the blood from his nose bleed speckled amongst his endearing freckles, before Chris could cast a final look at the remnants of the marks he had left on Tom’s throat, he pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shot was met with silent shock. Tom’s body jerked and hit the pavement dully, his pretty head cracking against the ground. He fell uncharacteristically ungraceful and lifeless, the sheet still wrapped around his perfect frame.

It was no surprise to Chris that not a drop of blood stained that fabric and that Tom was left looking fucking virginal in his death.

Aside from the gaping hole in his head.

Within moments, Chris had given into every urge he had had since the beginning of their trip. Tom had plucked and plucked at Chris’ nerves with his perfection, tried and tried Chris’ patience and resolve…but now he was gone. Tom was nothing. All that time they’d prolonged this.

Chris should have done it sooner. The bastard had fucked him over and every way, but Chris could not just erase the past few days.

The gun fell beside Tom’s body, and Chris finally raised his hands in surrender. Paramedics came in to take the Brit’s limp body away as Chris was detained, but Chris did not even spare it a glance. It was over, why dwell? He would pay for what he had done soon enough. All that time reminiscing when he could have just used it to jump the border. He’d gotten so close and he’d been caught monologueing.

He wasn’t even the actor.

Chris perhaps found his most shocking moment when, before they carted him away – him, the criminal who already outwardly confessed for all the cops and the media he’d spread Tom’s name to – they tended to his wound. Chris had a body count, and they still cared about his well-being.

What a funny world.

Chris was then dragged away from the gruesome scene and thrown into a cop car, which was what he suspected in the first place.

So, that was it. He was done. He had already decided lethal injection would be his way out of this world, no questions asked. He deserved to die for what he did to Aleks. For what he did to—

For what he did to that infuriatingly charming, quirky Brit with the lovely eyes and lovelier hair that tasted like cigarettes.

He hoped, when the articles hit and the stories dropped, that they would find an old picture of Tom, one from his younger days. One where his hair still curled, and his eyes were so bright, and he had that enraging smile tugging at his thin lips. One where he didn’t have a chunk of his skull missing. Chris supposed he deserved that. Tom had never clarified the image he wanted his legacy to hold – the ginger Chris had met, the golden-retriever blonde in the pictures Tom had carried in his wallet, or the dark-haired stray that days on the road had transformed him into – but Chris wondered if he would have cared, so long as his name spread like wildfire.

So long as everyone remembered his last name had a fucking ‘t’ in it.

So long as he had the fame he felt he deserved.

Chris never should have stopped at that bar.

He should have kept driving. What was another six hours through the barren desert with nothing but evangelists and static on the radio? What was six more hours with a stomach threatening to digest itself and a headache pounding at his temples? Six more hours was Kansas. Six more hours was another state away from New York. Six more hours was another state closer to the border.

Six more hours was never being caught.

Six more hours was never meeting Tom.

Priorities.


End file.
